


Nothing Worth Having

by thewaythatwerust



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Actor Steve Rogers, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Angst, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Human Disaster Bucky Barnes, Humor, M/M, Omega Bucky Barnes, Personal Assistant Bucky Barnes, Pining, Slow Burn, Some light BDSM moments/thoughts, There's only One Bed!, Top Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26895562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: Steve Rogers is one of the hottest actors in Hollywood. He's about to start filming the second installment of the hugely successful Captain America series... and Bucky Barnes has just been hired to be his new assistant.Bucky is very, very fucked. And not in the fun way.He turns into a complete disaster every time he's around Steve—the alpha is sweet and kind and funny and makes him burn hotter than the sun. He can deal with the demanding girlfriend, the sometimes odd requests, the early starts and travel requirements, and he's used to the side-long looks from the assholes who still view male omegas as freaks of nature—but the mixed messages from Steve? Those may actually kill him (if he doesn't spontaneously combust from total mortification first).
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 1477
Kudos: 938





	1. A One-Two Punch of Humiliation

**Author's Note:**

> i. A few content warnings for the fic in its entirety. (Please read to make sure you aren't squicked/annoyed/whatever later! 
> 
> > Tony stans may not like this fic. Tony is a bit of a dick. Not Rumlow level, but... think of his usual banter but with a bit of a sharper edge. It is not designed to be anti-Tony, but if you are sensitive you may view it that way. 
> 
> >Sharon fans may also not like my portrayal of her in this fic; she's a bit bitchy... for reasons that will be revealed. 
> 
> I needed a few characters in this to serve specific purposes, and I opted to use characters we know rather than trying to introduce OCs. I completely understand if you're a fan of either of these characters and choose not to read--I'm putting this note here so you can decide if it's your jam or not. (If you complain later about their portrayals, I'm just going to nicely point you back here, ;))
> 
> >In this verse, there are some homophobic-esque views towards male omegas. If you're sensitive to, or triggered by that kind of vibe, proceed with caution. It's not shoved down your throat or dealt with in a hugely heavy-handed way (imo) but it is in there, so... consider yourself warned.
> 
> >Without spoiling things, I will say that this fic does feature a M/F pairing (Steve/Sharon). But there is no sexual content for that pairing, it isn't the focus of the story, and isn't the endgame pairing (which is Stucky, obv) and may not be what it appears, either, so I've chosen not to tag for it given it may give readers a wrong impression. If you have any concerns for this pairing/how it's going to be handled, feel free to ask here (or if spoilery, off anon on tumblr).
> 
> ii. I think that's all for now. If you got this far and decide to dive it, please enjoy it! As always, feel free to leave your thoughts & reactions, I luff them all! <33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hi. I'm Steve, and you are?"
> 
> The voice rolls down Bucky's spine like honey, thick and rich, making his toes curl in his boots as Steve looks at him expectantly. And this is it; this is Bucky's chance. All he has to do is say,'Hi. I'm Bucky. I'm your new personal assistant.' But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a strangled noise, triggering his cheeks to flood with color to complete the one-two punch of humiliation.

Bucky's fingers twitch around his laminated ID nervously. The sharp plastic corners press into his skin as he strides forward, trying to look like he belongs even though he's pretty sure it's not possible to feel any _less_ confident.

Thankfully, the convention center is packed to capacity, and all the people rushing around him aren't paying him any mind, too concerned with trying to catch glimpses of their favorite celebrities peppered around the hall. He groans as a large alpha brushes past him, arms full of merch. Blockers should be a requirement of entry; the place is flooded with pheromones, and it's not even noon.

The thought sets off alarms in the back of his mind, and he slides his phone out of his jeans pocket with his free hand for the two-hundredth time in the past hour to check the clock. 10:07 AM. Precisely four minutes since the last time he'd checked, and twenty-three minutes before he's due to meet his new boss.

Re-stashing his phone, Bucky spies a harried-looking woman with a messy ponytail and clipboard, and large red letters on her black t-shirt identifying her as staff. He steps into her path, raising his hand in greeting. "Excuse me. Sorry, could you please tell me where I could find St-Steve Rogers?" Bucky cringes at the squeak in his voice, but it's the small, uncertain sound that makes the woman's irritated features soften.

She looks him up and down once, then sighs. "Follow me."

Bucky rushes to keep pace as she makes a beeline for the opposite end of the hall. People part for her before swallowing her back up, leaving Bucky to weave in and out of the throng, hopping up and down to catch sight of his short-statured guide, murmuring apologies as he fights his way through the crowd.

Finally, the woman comes to a stop at a line of people disappearing into a curtained off area, and she motions for him to join the end. "You're lucky it's still early; there shouldn't be too long of a wait."

"Oh, uh, thank—" Bucky starts, but before he can finish, the woman has disappeared back into the crowd.

He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to smooth it down, pushing the fly-aways off his glasses and tucking them down behind his ears. This isn't how he'd expected today to go. The first day of his new job and he is a sweaty, nervous wreck—and he hasn't even met his new boss yet.

His new boss, Steve Rogers: actor—no, Hollywood heartthrob—and Alpha to end all alphas, with his chiseled jaw and body to match, perfect smile and ocean eyes that Bucky could dive into. Well, based on his movies, at least. Bucky has never actually _met_ him, but high def these days is almost as good as the real thing, or arguably better—with the perfect lighting and makeup and probably some kind of soft-focus lens. There's no way Rogers could be that good looking in real life. The abs are no doubt painted on, and the massive bulge in his swim trunks—the one that had been plastered all over the glossy magazines his best friend Nat spends too much time 'reading'—is probably edited to look that way.

And now Bucky's palms are sweating.

He shoves his ID into his pocket before wiping his hands over denim-clad thighs. He's so woefully unprepared for this.

He'd only found out he'd landed the personal assistant gig yesterday in a text message from Sam Wilson, Steve's agent, and he's had insufficient time to process, decompress, and freak the fuck out. Butterflies the size of pigeons had been flapping in his gut when he'd woken up this morning, and are still swooping now. Though some of the queasiness may be from hunger—he'd been unable to push anything past his lips, save a very abused thumbnail that he'd gnawed on for the entirety of the journey here.

Bucky rechecks his phone. 10:12. He pushes it back in his pocket and shoves his glasses up his nose with an index finger. Oh, why didn't he wear his contacts?

He checks his phone five more times before 10:25.

It's 10:28 when Bucky flushes hot all over, a cold sweat breaking out over every inch of his skin, making his glasses slip down his nose again, but he doesn't push them up because he can't—he can't move.

He's an idiot. Bucky Barnes is an idiot; it'll be chiseled into his tombstone.  
  
So lost in his worries and musings, he'd completely missed the obvious. The staffer had brought him to see Steve, alright. She'd put him in line, and like a good, obedient little omega, he'd stayed put, not questioning it. Well, not staying put exactly—as more people had come to stand behind him, and the ones in front had shuffled ahead, he'd moved up to fill the gap, and soon the _here_ where the woman had put him wasn't _here_ at all, but fifty paces ahead. It had taken those spaces for him to edge around the curtained off area he'd spied earlier and realize that he's in an autograph line, and he has five people ahead of him before he'll come face to face with Steve.

Bucky steps forward, watching a trembling woman thrust a picture of Steve's face at Steve, bursting into tears when he smiles up at her.

_Four people._

He has four people to come up with a less-than-mortifying explanation for why Steve's new personal assistant is in line to get his autograph and not in line to get him coffee.

He's screwed.

Bucky retrieves his phone with a shaky hand. 10:33. He fumbles to get the device back into his pocket. He won't need it again now; he's officially late on the first day of his new job and will end up humiliated and unemployed any minute. Even with the number of impressively short-lived jobs padding out his resume, this is going to be a personal best.

He tries, really tries to think of a way to spin his mistake into a charming anecdote, something to make Steve laugh instead of wanting to fire him on the grounds of incurable idiocy. But as each fan takes their turn basking in Steve's attention, and the number of bodies between him and his maybe-boss decreases, so too does Bucky's ability to think straight. And when the last guy in front of him steps to the table, and he's left waiting at the head of the line, his ability to think leaves him completely.

After a moment that's much too quick, the man at the table gathers up something large and shiny and blurs out of Bucky's vision, and suddenly, nothing is blocking his view of the most gorgeous fucking person he has ever seen in real life.

A bored voice from his left tells him to move ahead, and he manages to comply, miraculously not stumbling on legs that had turned to rubber at some point in the last ten seconds.

Steve stares up at him from his seated position behind the table. His perfect mouth opens wordlessly before closing again. His throat bobs, and then his lips are pulling up, parting, and two rows of white are flashing up at Bucky, an island surrounded by a perfectly trimmed beard that looks so soft that his new goal in life is just to run his fingers through it. But he probably won't live long enough to get the chance because his lungs are down for the count, constricting painfully in his chest.

"Hi. I'm Steve, and you are?"

The voice rolls down Bucky's spine like honey, thick and rich, making his toes curl in his boots as Steve looks at him expectantly. And this is it; this is Bucky's chance. All he has to do is say, _'Hi. I'm Bucky. I'm your new personal assistant.'_ But he can feel the dozens of eyes on his back—or hundreds? It feels like thousands—and granted, they're trying to look through him to see Steve, but still, when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is a strangled noise, triggering his cheeks to flood with color to complete the one-two punch of humiliation.

Up close, Steve is even more beautiful, and Bucky isn't sure how the fuck _that_ is possible. He looks like he's been photoshopped. Suddenly self-conscious, Bucky nudges his glasses up and silently laments the new tendrils of hair that have escaped his bun and are clinging to his neck.

Steve's lips twitch side to side, a synchronized dance that makes Bucky twitch much lower down. "What would you like signed?" he tries again, eyes trained on Bucky's.

Right. Signed... because he's in an autograph line and that's kind of how things work. But all Bucky has on him is his pass—which, no, that photo of him could be used for blackmail—or his wallet—which is tucked away in his pants, and oh, no, he's pretty sure drawing attention to his pants right now is a very bad idea. The only other thing he has is…

Bucky thrusts out his arm.

"You want me to sign _you_?" Steve's eyes narrow.

Bucky jerks his head up and down. A vaguely affirmative noise is the only thing he can manage. His tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth, but he's just proud he hasn't swallowed it.

Steve pushes the chair back effortlessly as he rises to his feet like a god ascending to smite him, and Bucky's knees go weak. He feels the unmistakable slide of slick over skin and sends up a silent thanks that he'd remembered to take his scent blocker pill this morning, because that would be one humiliation he could not come back from.

"You're not going to get this inked, are you? My signature is not tattoo-worthy."

Dizzily, Bucky realizes he's been holding his breath and his lungs are _burning_. He pushes it out in a rush with his answer. "Oh, no, that's not... nope," he says, popping the 'p.'

"Ahh, so you _can_ talk," Steve chuckles softly, sliding his hand under Bucky's outstretched arm, and god, Bucky fervently hopes Steve doesn't feel the shiver that races through him at the contact. "What would you like me to write?" Steve quirks a questioning eyebrow.

"I'm easy," Bucky croaks.

Steve's other eyebrow jumps up to meet its twin, and Bucky starts praying for a sinkhole to open beneath his feet and swallow him whole. "You want me to write I'm—"

"Oh! No! I just, uh, I didn't mean that you should write that _you're_ easy, I don't think you are, oh, god, not that I've thought about it, and I'm not really—oh, shit, fuck," Bucky stammers. "Ah, it just—uh, y' know, I just meant whatever you want is fine, just, umm, something easy, I'm good for whatever you want—with, _with_ —I'm good _with_ whatever you want… to write." Bucky drives his teeth into the tip of his tongue hard enough to taste metal.

"Easy, huh?" That dazzling smile puts in another appearance before Steve forces his lips together tightly, but it doesn't stop his amusement tugging up the edges. Bucky registers the tip of the pen pressing against his arm, the wet slide of ink, but he can't drag his eyes away from the dirty-blond locks falling down over Steve's forehead as he leans forward, focused intently on his task—focused on Bucky's arm.

Though it can't be more than seconds, to Bucky, it feels like hours later when the pen finally lifts, but Steve doesn't release his hold.

"I can't let you go in good conscience without getting your word that you won't have this permanently etched into your skin," Steve murmurs.

For a fleeting moment, Bucky wants to test the declaration, but he shakes his head. "Promise."

"Good. I can think of a million other things that would look better on your body than my name."

_Yeah, like_ your _body_ Bucky’s brain supplies immediately, turning the innocent remark into a full-blown x-rated fantasy free-for-all, delicious images of Steve on him— _in him_ —filling his head. It's only when Steve's low _'that so?'_ reaches Bucky's ear that he realizes he's verbalized his thought—through his actual mouth... to Steve's actual face.

Bucky freezes. "Uh, shit, I'm sorry. That was supposed to, y' know, stay in my head: internal memo only, not fit for public consumption. It was just, uh, I didn't mean…" Bucky trails off, his brain pulling the emergency brake. The reality that he has to face Steve later, a _very soon_ later, and explain all of this slams into him, and he yanks his arm back. He recoils it to his side, where anxious fingers twist the hem of his shirt into a tight nub.

He knows he needs to leave, to find somewhere safe and private to stop, drop, and roll to extinguish the flames of shame licking over his skin, but he just… _can't._ He feels a strange pull to Steve. Maybe it's the alpha dominance making him want to submit, to wait until he's given his leave, or maybe it's the eleven out of ten attraction that has him unable to look away. But whatever it is, he feels like he's tethered to Steve with an invisible but very real string.

Steve's eyes are locked on his, and it should be awkward or uncomfortable, but it's not. The unwavering gaze is lighting up places inside him that exist only in shadow, and for the first time in his life, he feels seen, _really seen_ , like his soul is laid bare… and Steve's not looking away.

Bucky curls his hands into tight fists, letting his blunt nails bite into his palms. He'd been wrong about those ocean eyes; he's not swimming in them, he's drowning.

Someone behind Steve clears their throat, and then again louder, and Steve finally looks away, turning toward the source of the noise. The connection breaks, and Bucky blinks slowly as if coming out of a daze, but when his eyes close, it's not black behind his lids, but cerulean blue.

"Sorry. I should go," Bucky mumbles. He's sure he's been at the table for hours, taking up too much of Steve's time while there are dozens of people waiting... or, probably hundreds at this point.

When Steve turns back, his eyes are glittering darkly. "It was nice to meet you, ah...?"

Bucky manages to say his name without stuttering or freezing up, and Steve's lips curve up again. It's not the dazzling smile featured on the ten-foot poster behind him, but small, more personal somehow. "Bucky."

After managing a very shaky smile of his own, Bucky takes one step away from the table before twisting back. He fixes his eyes on the white t-shirt stretched tight over Steve's ridiculous chest instead of his face, not wanting to lose himself in that hypnotic gaze again. He inclines his head to the side, to his arm. "Oh, and um, thank you."

Steve's _'you're welcome'_ comes, deep and warm, after Bucky has already turned away.

He weaves his way through the human hazard course and heads for the restroom, needing to splash some cold water on his face before he spontaneously combusts. There's a different prickling sensation on the back of his neck, but Bucky waits until he's twenty steps clear—he counts them under his breath—before looking over his shoulder to see Steve, twirling his pen, watching him.

Bucky jerks to a stop and is immediately knocked onto his ass by a heavy-set guy wearing a Captain America shirt. He groans as he scrambles to his feet. Of fucking course. He doesn't need to check if Steve had witnessed his latest embarrassment. Clearly, the hits are going to keep coming today, and the universe is going to land them all.


	2. This Is Going To Be Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky catches the door as it rebounds back to him, his heart sinking like an anchor. He already knows this is going to be bad, but it's not until he peeks around the door that he realizes precisely how bad it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. You've had the meet cute, who's up for some re-meet ugly? ;) 
> 
> ii. Thank you for all the love on the first chapter, you guys made my finger slip and press post early. But, really, I hope you like reading about these crumpets' adventures as much as I enjoy writing them. 
> 
> iii. As always, feel free to flail or shout or keysmash or ponder plotlines with me here or over on tumblr [@thewaythatwerust](http://thewaythatwerust.tumblr.com)

Head in hands, elbows on knees, Bucky rocks back and forth on the closed lid of the toilet, trying to form some semblance of a plan. He doesn't know how long he's been in here, hiding; he's not been brave enough to look at his phone.

Like a record stuck in a groove, his mind keeps replaying the disastrous meeting, and now he's not only mortified but confused. Why the hell had he reacted to Steve like that? He can't blame it on pheromones; Steve had been surrounded in a cloud of vanilla blockers—not the cloying, synthetic kind his neighbor uses but the expensive ones that made him smell like vanilla bean ice cream. And Bucky's not some swooning fanboy, going gaga over a pretty face, and broad shoulders… and perfect teeth so white they probably glow in the dark… and… he shakes his head. _Fuck._ He tries to remember his point. Oh, right. He's not a slut for celebrity—hell, one of his best friends is an actor, a solid B-lister, and he isn't creaming his knickers every time Clint walks in the room. No, this is… different. _Steve_ is different.

Behind closed lids, he rolls his eyes at himself. Okay, so, having a crush on his maybe-boss isn't ideal, but it's fine… he'll be fine. It doesn't have to be awkward. Steve is a fantasy—millions of people's fantasy—but the reality will fall way, way short, right? With how Steve looks, odds are he's a complete asshole when not pandering to fans. He's probably a prima-donna drama queen, and if Bucky manages to keep this job, he'll no doubt spend his days being sent on multiple coffee runs because it's too hot or too cold or not strong enough, learning to duck as cups failing to pass muster are thrown in the general direction of his head. Yeah, his crush will die a quick and painless death when he's a sleep-deprived grunt doing dry cleaning runs, and picking out gifts, and being threatened with unemployment for forgetting to pick the yellow m&ms out of the packet.

A small glimmer of hope begins to shine through the dark cloud hovering over his head just as a loud screech sounds over the PA system. It's followed by an overly cheery voice that sets his teeth on edge.

"Photo ops with Steve Rogers will begin in fifteen minutes in Area H for passes A through G. Please follow the signs and have your tickets ready."

It's almost like the universe is taking pity on him, giving him a fighting chance, but he isn't about to question it, not when the seeds of a plan are finally beginning to germinate in his mind.

The autograph session must be winding down and photo ops are held at the opposite end of the building. They won't parade Steve through the main hall, which means... maybe he can steal a private moment and explain the situation. Or, maybe he doesn’t even _have_ to explain. Steve probably won't even recognize him. He must see thousands of people a day, and the odds are good that at least half of them make asses out of themselves. Hell, he's probably had hundreds more cry and blurt inappropriate responses in the time since Bucky had hightailed it away from the table.

Setting his shoulders, he escapes his cubicle of regret and washes his hands before striding back out onto the main floor, headed toward the autograph table. Even if he ends up getting fired, at least it will be without many witnesses, and today, he'll take what small mercies he can get.

He arrives at the table just in time to see Steve slip through a door to an obviously VIP-only area. Casting a quick look around to make sure there are no hidden bodyguards ready to tackle him to the floor and complete his humiliation trifecta, he edges closer. But nobody is even looking in his direction, and when no one appears in front of him with a stern look, or worse, behind him with a hand on his back like something out of a horror movie, he squares his shoulders, takes a deep breath and swings the door open—

—right into something solid.

Bucky catches the door as it rebounds back to him, his heart sinking like an anchor. He already knows this is going to be bad, but it's not until he peeks around the door to see Steve, hand cupped over his nose, blood dripping from his hand, that he realizes precisely _how_ bad.

“ _Fuck!_ Oh, fuck! I'm so sorry! I didn't know— _oh, shit_ —here." Bucky pulls the handkerchief from his back pocket and thrusts it toward Steve. Oh, he's definitely getting fired now, maybe even arrested.

Steve stares at him with wide eyes as he reaches out and takes the handkerchief. He pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and uses the other to stem the bleeding with the offered cloth. _“Bucky?”_

Bucky grimaces, torn between being elated that Steve remembers him and wishing for that sinkhole again. "I didn't know you were there. I'm so sorry!"

"Sorry, fans aren't allowed in this area." A petite blonde is walking toward them briskly, cherry red lips curved up warmly. "You'll need to go back out to the—oh my god, Steve! What the hell? Did he _attack_ you?" The warmth vanishes immediately, lips pinching as she turns on Bucky.

"No! I didn't attack anyone—"

"It was an accident." Steve's voice is thick, pained and nasal. "I left my phone on the table, and I was heading out to get it as Bucky was heading in…"

Sharon wavers. "Bucky? You know this guy, Steve?"

Steve's eyes flick to Bucky as he nods. "We met in the autograph line."

“So he _is_ a fan?” Sharon spits the word like a curse, and Bucky dislikes the omega immediately—her tongue is as sharp as the cheekbones on both her faces.

"No, uh, I'm his—uh," Bucky stammers, turning to face Steve. “I’m _your_ new personal assistant.”

Steve shakes his head slowly, confusion tugging at his brows. “I don’t _have_ an assistant, Bucky. I'm sorry, there must have been a mix-up."

Bucky freezes, and for several heart-stopping moments, he seriously questions whether he's made a mistake or if someone's playing a prank on him. Maybe Nat…? No, she wouldn't have the contacts to set this up. Clint could, though he doesn't have the attention span. And, no...it has to be real; he'd gone for the interview, gotten the SMS, the ID, signed the NDA. Ninety-nine percent sure he isn't delusional, he holds the ID out to Steve, pleased to note only a slight tremor in his hand.

Steve releases the bridge of his nose to take it. He frowns. "A day pass to the convention?"

"Oh, yeah, no." Bucky makes a spinning motion with his index finger. "Flip it."

He'd slid his pass into the pocket of his ID for safekeeping, but he knows what Steve is looking at now, and tries not to cringe when those cerulean eyes flick to his face and back down again.

The photo is probably the second-worst picture of him in existence, coming right in under the one from when he's five and sporting a bowl cut. But along with the photo, there's his job title, full name, and number, along with that of Steve's agent and something to do with the production company in charge of Captain America, and most importantly, Steve's name.

"He probably made that himself," Sharon snorts dismissively, peering at it from beside Steve. "All the nerds know how to use photoshop these days."

Bristling and determined to one-up her, Bucky takes his phone from his pocket and pulls up the text from The Wilson Agency. "Here." He holds it out to Steve, exchanging it for his ID. "Everything is in there, the confirmation I got the job, the info about the packet that had my pass, when to meet you..." _Ahh, shit._ The wheels in his head start spinning, sending a half-formed explanation rushing to his tongue. "I know I'm late, I _was_ here on time, I swear, but when I asked where I could find you, someone put me in the autograph line thinking I was a fan. I mean, I _am_ a fan, of course, I am, who isn't? Your movies are great, it's just I didn't twig where I was until I did, y'know? And by then, it was too late, and I didn't really know how to explain without looking like a Grade A moron—which, I'm now realizing I didn't avoid that at all, only delayed it, and if I'd just owned up to it back then, I wouldn't have messed up your face—I mean, not that it is messed up, it's still gorgeous, it's just— _fuck_." Bucky pulls in a deep breath to soothe his burning lungs.

He wants to slap a hand over his mouth. What the fuck is wrong with him? His brain-mouth filter seems to malfunction every time he's close to Steve. He needs an electroshock collar or a gag or— _nonono._ He wills his dick to stay asleep while his brain takes those innocent suggestions and runs with them. He needs to get a grip on his mouth and his out of control libido is what he needs to do.

He turns his attention back outward to Steve, focusing wholly on the way his lips press tighter together the more he reads. Finally, he makes a low sound in the base of his throat. Bucky doesn't know the alpha's noises—yet—but if he had to guess, he'd say that it isn't a happy one.

"That doesn't—" Sharon starts, but Steve cuts her off.

"It's Sam's number, Sharon. You can’t photoshop _that_.”

The clipped tone makes Bucky want to cheer… until Steve lifts the handkerchief from his nose. The bleeding has stopped, but the red staining his skin and clinging to his facial hair is almost a perfect color match to the swollen lump now protruding from his face.

Time seems to slow down inside Bucky's head, and he can feel all the blood in his body draining to his feet as surely as if someone had pulled a plug. He's pretty sure there'll be some kind of lawsuit: Bucky Barnes vs The Fucking Up of Steve Rogers' Gorgeous Face. Oh god, the slight bump of Steve's nose has long been a trademark of sorts, perfectly imperfect, the wink and nod that the alpha isn't as clean-cut as the rest of him appears, stirring visions of him getting rough and dirty in an alley—with his fists at least. What if Bucky has broken Steve's nose? He could have ruined Steve's career with a fucking door. Bucky's sharp inhale of panic is, thankfully, drowned out by Sharon's screech.

_"Jesus, Steve! Your face!"_

Steve trails gentle fingers over the inflamed flesh and winces. "I don't think it's broken. It's okay."

"Okay? _Okay?_ No, this is _not_ okay. You've got photos next. This is not—" Sharon holds her hands up in front of her chest, closes her eyes, and pulls in a deep breath. "Ice. I'm going to find some ice, ibuprofen, and makeup. We can fix this." She nods once, sharply—a physical rebuke to any counter plans that may have been about to be offered—then turns and strides to and out of the door at the opposite end of the room.

Steve doesn't watch her go, just holds Bucky's phone back out to him. He looks down at the bloodied handkerchief in his hand before shoving it into his own pocket. "I'm sorry, Bucky. Would you excuse me for a minute?"

"Oh, yeah, of course." Bucky jumps forward, out of the doorway, watching as Steve walks through. He doesn't close it behind him.

Unable to stop himself, Bucky takes two steps to the right until he's able to catch sight of Steve, at the table where he'd left his phone, now in his hands, fingers dancing across the screen before he lifts it to his ear. It only takes a moment for the call to connect.

"Oh, no, don't even try that on me right now, Wilson. What the hell is going on?" Steve's voice is low, but with no other noise to cover it, it carries easily. "You knew I didn't want an assis—" he breaks off, head turning back toward the door, and Bucky stumbles out of sight, praying desperately that Steve hadn't seen him. He knows his prayers go unanswered, _again_ , when Steve lowers his voice even further, and Bucky cranes forward, not risking moving into view again, just straining to catch the hushed but terse words. "You know how I feel about this."

Bucky's heart sinks. Steve is trying to get rid of him. But why not just fire him? Maybe because Sam hired him, Steve can't fire him directly? Ah, he really should have read his contract closer… or at all. But fine print aside, it couldn't be more obvious that Steve isn't thrilled about the situation.

Steve snorts then swears creatively. "I don't care what they think." There's a pause, and then, 'Yeah, and _you_ said—" He breaks off before sighing. "Oh, bullshit! One has nothing to do with the other."

There's a strange tightening in Bucky's gut, and he tries very hard not to feel like an unwanted Christmas present on the cusp of hitting the returns bin.

"You know I can't. And that's not what—" Steve huffs. "Fine." There's another pause and then, "No, he's... it's fine." He sighs.

Bucky spins on the spot, facing the opposite wall, almost landing on his ass— _again_ —as Steve comes back through the doorway.

"Sorry about that. Sam didn't tell me he was going to hire you. Or anyone, actually."

Bucky turns back more slowly, nodding, pretending like they both don't know he'd heard every word. Like they both don't know that if Sam _had_ told Steve he was going to hire him, Steve would have talked his agent out of it. Like they both don't know Steve doesn't want him here.

"No, I'm the one who should be apologizing for," Bucky gestures at Steve's face. "And for earlier, too."

The storm raging across Steve's face clears gradually, and the small, slow-blooming smile that pulls at his lips is not unlike the sun appearing, sending rays of warmth filling Bucky's chest.  
  
"It's okay, I understand. Having a lot of eyes on you takes some getting used to, or some heavy-duty anti-anxiety meds." He chuckles and Bucky flushes hot at the delicious sound, moisture slipping from his body as his mouth goes dry. He bites back a whimper with extreme difficulty.

He is very, very fucked. And not in the fun way.

There must be some kind of Recommended Daily Intake for Steve Rogers. Five minutes, maximum. Prolonged exposure is bound to lead to Bucky wedging his foot in his mouth, landing on his ass, or worse—on his knees, begging Steve to fuck a hole of his choosing. Unless...

"If you don't want me, it's okay." An odd look crosses Steve's face before Bucky realizes how that must sound after their earlier interaction. "Uh, want me for your assistant, I mean. If you'd prefer someone else or no one else, it's okay. I get it. I can just… go? You can tell your agent I quit." He shrugs in a hopefully casual way, praying Steve can't see his pulse beating in his throat. "Or, I can tell him," he adds as an afterthought, even though the very idea makes him want to throw up.

Steve tilts his head to the side, beautiful appraising eyes narrowing. "You'd do that for me?"

The look on Steve's face has Bucky wanting to drop to all fours and lick Steve's shoes, or beg him to let him lick something else. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, then realizes the warring signals he's sending. "Uh, I mean yeah. If you want me to, I will."

Steve moves closer; it's just one step, but it forces all the oxygen from the room, and suddenly, Bucky can't breathe. This close, pressed into his space, he's struck dumb at the sheer _size_ of Steve. So broad and tall, and just so… _solid_. Bucky only reaches Steve's shoulder, and he has to tilt his head back to keep that intense gaze, baring his bone-dry throat.

"No, Bucky," Steve drawls, voice dark and deep. "I'm not going to fire you or have you quit before your first day. Give me your number." He holds his phone out.

Bucky takes it, careful to keep from brushing his fingers over Steve's—his grip on the pitiful whimper lodged in his throat is tenuous at best, and skin on skin contact might send him over the edge. He enters his number with trembling fingers, stalling when he gets to the name input. His brain is sluggish, able to concentrate on nothing but the intense desire to sink to his knees _._ He bites at his cheek, wincing when his teeth tear through the soft flesh, but it's enough to drag his focus back to the task at hand. Unable to decide between Personal Assistant or just Bucky, he splits the difference and adds himself as Bucky Barnes PA to cover all bases—and sit closer to the top of the contact list—before handing the device back.

"So, what do you want me to do, St—Sir?" Unsure of how to address Steve in the newly established professional relationship, Bucky fumbles the question spectacularly, and familiar heat bites at his cheeks, imagining a very unprofessional setting with that word dripping from his lips.  
  
Steve's gaze drops to Bucky's mouth. The question hangs heavy in the air as he tightens his grip on the phone, knuckles blooming white. The silence stretches on—hours wrapped in seconds—until stormy eyes drag back up to Bucky's. "You can call me Steve at work," he says finally, with a voice that sends something like static electricity bolting through Bucky's nerves.  
  
And _oh_... The implication in Steve's answer has Bucky's omega instincts lighting up like a basketful of glowsticks, and the trapped whimper finally escapes his throat. He tries to cover, coughing roughly even as he clasps his hands together and drops them in front of his crotch, praying to every saint known to take pity on human disasters that they're enough to hide his rapidly tenting pants.

"I want you," Steve continues, "to go home. I wasn't really prepared for… _help_ today. The text from Sam says you don't officially start until Monday. How about a do-over then? Maybe without the door to the face, though?" Steve grins at Bucky's wince. "I'll text you this afternoon, let you know the where and when once I've checked my schedule."

Bucky knows he should argue, the small voice in his head berating him for not insisting on fetching a box of tissues or a new shirt to replace the one Steve's wearing, now sporting red stains. But the much louder voice is already on board with the new plan, wanting to rush from Steve's sight and curl up in a ball and die of shame.

"Okay, yeah. That sounds… good, great." Bucky backs away from Steve, edging his way out of the VIP area. "And again, I'm really, really sorry about your face."

Steve doesn't reply, just watches him reverse from the room, a bemused smile curving his lips. When Bucky bumps into the table Steve had been sitting at earlier, he finally turns away and makes a beeline for the exit.

_Jesus fuck shit._

He makes it through the doors and sucks in lungfuls of fresh air, trying to chase the lingering vanilla scent from his nose, but the rapid influx of oxygen into his system only makes the dizzying swirling of his head worse. He wants to scream… to fist pump the air… to cry. He wants to throw up. He settles for sagging back against the facade of the building instead, balling up his shaking hands and pressing them against his chest. People stream around him, chattering excitedly, but all he can hear is the rapid pounding of his blood in his ears.

 _He didn't get fired._ He didn’t get _sued_. He gave Steve fucking Rogers his number.

All in all, for a complete and utter dumpster fire of a day, it turned out pretty… okay.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, the dark marks on his arm catch his eye. He had completely forgotten about his ill-gotten autograph. He peers at his arm curiously. There's Steve's name, bold and loopy, and above it… He groans and stares at the words, _Steve's words,_ mocking him from his own skin. One last blow from the universe for its favorite whipping boy. He runs his fingers over the letters, feeling a strange sense of foreboding forming a pit in his gut.

_Nothing worth having comes easy._


	3. Not a Vanilla Type of Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yesterday, you, uh, you smelled like vanilla beans, like ice cream. I thought that you must really like it even though that doesn't make sense because it looks like you've never eaten any empty carbs in your entire life…" Bucky stops the stream of moron slipping past his lips by clearing his throat roughly, ignoring the quiet chuckle on the other end of the line. So apparently, this is just a thing he has to endure now. Ultimate Mortification is his new brand whenever he's talking to Steve. It can't be permanent, though… can it? Surely he'll build up some kind of tolerance, or immunity, or… or… something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Thank you for all the loveeeeeeee. I lovwwwwe you all, and I reallllly love that you love these two. <33333
> 
> ii. And oh, hey, look - Bucky is finally getting a handle on things! There's hope for him yet! ;)
> 
> iii. Going to try and keep this one updating on Wed & Sat (Aussie time, so.. maybe Tues & Fri US time?) going forward. [Finger crossing emoji here].

Bucky cocks his head to the side, eyes closed against the spray of water washing bubbles from his hair, listening. The melodic tone comes again, and he fumbles with the tap, accidentally jerking it to scalding before pushing it down to kill the flow of water.

One curse becomes two as he steps out of the shower and his feet slide on the tiles. He catches himself on the towel rack even as he grabs his phone. He thumbs the green accept call button then shoves it against his dripping ear, holding it in place with his shoulder as he grabs for a towel.

"Hey—hi, hello?"

There's a pause before the telltale clicking of a headset connecting. "Good morning, sir! I'm calling to let you know about the amazing deal on the new range of _Scentuality_ blockers! With twenty unique fragrances—"

Bucky sags against the rack as the forced-cheerful voice starts listing the different scents—and, ooh, grapefruit and pomegranate sounds interesting. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he says quickly when the guy finally takes a breath five minutes later, "but I don't want to waste your time. I'm not interested. But thank you," he adds as an afterthought, knowing the guy must get hung up on nine times out of ten and not wanting to be a dick about it. That doesn't stop him from spitting out a curse when he disconnects the call, though.

He had spent all day yesterday waiting for Steve's text—checking and rechecking so often he'd used his battery up in record time. So, naturally, he'd plugged it into the charger and sat beside it and waited some more. Then he'd checked his notification settings, made sure his sound was on, and that he had service. In the end, he'd been forced to admit that the only reason he hadn't gotten Steve's text is that Steve hadn't sent him one.

And though he had tried not to spiral, he hadn't done a good job of it. He spent the whole night trapped in an endless cycle of blow-by-painful-blow replays of both humiliating encounters in excruciating detail, and a barrage of rabid what-ifs ripping through his brain.

Finally, just as the horizon was beginning to blush, he'd arrived at the only logical conclusion: Steve had changed his mind. He didn't want an assistant, and the easiest, most guilt-free way of getting rid of Bucky is simply not sending him the text telling him where to show up. It's clever, really—letting Bucky get himself fired by Sam when he didn't show up because he didn't know _where_ to show up.

But that hadn't stopped him from checking for messages when he woke up… and while he was eating breakfast-slash-lunch… or taking his phone with him into the bathroom for his shower, just in case.

After securing the towel around his hips, he leaves the bathroom, still nursing his disappointment. He passes the open plan living room and flings his phone toward the couch—pumping his arm in victory when it sticks the landing—and pads into the kitchen, to the sliding barrier hiding his washer and dryer from view. So preoccupied with _The Text_ , he'd forgotten to take fresh clothes with him to the bathroom.

With one hand on the dryer door, he twists back toward the couch as his ringtone sounds again. He abandons the clothes without hesitation, making it to his small, adjoining living room in record time. The number glowing up at him is unfamiliar, and his heart leaps into his throat once more. He really should have taken Steve's number yesterday, not just given his. With trembling hands, he hits green and presses the phone to his ear.

"Good morning, sir! I'm calling to let you know about the amazing deal on the new range of _Scentuality_ blockers! With twenty unique fragrances, you're sure to find your signature scent! There's lemon-fresh, coconut and—"

Bucky's heart does a reverse tuck with one and a half somersaults, three and a half twists before splashing down into his stomach.

"I'm not interested," he snaps, his annoyance at himself overflowing, immediately followed by a wave of regret. "Shit, sorry. I'm just—I'm good, okay? Thank you, though. They all, uh, they sound delightful, but I'm good." He ends the call and tosses the phone on the couch before dropping down beside it with yet another curse.

He really should start a swear jar. It'll be full in a week, and he can put the proceeds toward therapy, god knows he needs it. He shouldn't be this crestfallen he's found himself out of a job… again. But, no, he knows this disappointment is less about the what and much, much more about the _who_.

His phone trills again, and he scowls down at the unknown number. Oh, for fuck's sake. Now the universe is just _mocking_ him. He grabs it and jabs the screen hard enough to send a thrill of pain racing up to his wrist.

"Look, man," Bucky fumes before the telemarketer can get a word in edgewise, and he's forced to sit through the same script for the third time in half an hour. "I appreciate you have a job to do, but I am very happy with my current choice of blockers, and if I wanted to change them, I would have done so of my own volition. So can you please, please, take me off your call list?"

There's a beat of silence on the other end of the line.

"And what is it that you like so much about your current blockers?" Steve's voice flows through the phone, threaded with amusement.  
  
It makes Bucky's gut clench, and his lids drop closed as he scrunches his face up, silently cursing up a storm (it doesn't count if you don't say the words out loud). "Uhh, the scent," he squeaks.

"You're a fan of cinnamon?"

A shock goes through Bucky's body, a live wire sparking hot and bright, realizing Steve must have not only smelled him yesterday but _remembered_. "Yeah, um, I guess it's my favorite scent, so I figured if I had to be surrounded by something all day, then…" He shrugs before realizing Steve can't see him, and he slaps his hand to his forehead. _Idiot._ "I figure it might as well be that," he adds lamely.

There's another long pause, and Bucky actually lifts his phone from his ear to check the call hasn't been disconnected. But as he opens his mouth to ask if Steve's still there, the silence breaks on a low exhale. "Cinnamon is your favorite scent?"

Bucky frowns at the strained tone, every trace of earlier amusement gone. Did he say something wrong? He runs through the short conversation in his head three times, and then…

"Bucky?" Steve interrupts his fourth replay.

"Uh-huh. Yep," Bucky rasps. "Favorite."

Steve hums thoughtfully. When he speaks again, his voice is almost back to normal. "That makes sense. I like your logic."

"Is that why you—I mean, you're a big ice cream fan?"

Steve laughs, and Bucky crushes the phone against his ear more tightly, not willing to sacrifice a breath of space between the rolling rumble of amusement pushing from Steve's chest and his own ear. “Where did _that_ come from?”

Bucky slaps his head again, hard. Fuck. _Fuuuuuuuck._ He tries desperately to find a way to backpedal, to link it to an article he'd read or an interview or, no, _abort, abort,_ that's going to make him sound like a stalker, and that's arguably worse than saying he happened to catch a whiff of Steve's blockers yesterday at the convention. Because that's not weird, right? Steve was probably wearing more than usual to account for the funk from all the people that would be pressing up against him in the photo area. And Steve had noticed _his_ …

"Bucky?" Steve prompts again.

"Yesterday, you, uh, you smelled like vanilla beans, like ice cream. I thought that you must really like it even though that doesn't make sense because it looks like you've never eaten any empty carbs in your entire life…" Bucky stops the stream of moron slipping past his lips by clearing his throat roughly, ignoring the quiet chuckle on the other end of the line. So apparently, this is just a thing he has to endure now. Ultimate Mortification is his new brand whenever he's talking to Steve. It can't be permanent, though… can it? Surely he'll build up some kind of tolerance, or immunity, or… or… _something._  
  
"It is vanilla, yeah," Steve confirms. "And you're right, I've never met a bowl of ice cream that I didn't like, but I wouldn't exactly call myself a vanilla type of guy."  
  
Steve's not a vanilla type of guy.  
  
_Steve's not a vanilla type of guy._  
  
Bucky's grip on the phone is tight enough to hurt. Is that a double entendre? Steve can't just be talking about ice cream. Not in _that_ voice. An image bursts into his mind—of him draped over Steve's lap, a large hand wrapping around his throat, squeezing as the other comes down on his ass and— _shit._ He squirms on the couch, pretending valiantly that the wetness soaking the towel is just from the shower.  
  
"Uh-huh, that's valid. So many choices, it's har—ah, difficult to choose." Bucky hates how breathless his voice sounds. _Shitshitshitshit._ He needs to focus—on something other than the throbbing in his dick. He gives it a hard squeeze in reprimand, but it's just happy to have the attention, and he drives his teeth into his lip, barely catching the moan in time.  
  
The thought of jerking off listening to Steve talk about his favorite flavors of ice cream steals through his mind, and he gives it a solid two seconds of actual consideration before he dismisses it. This is his fucking boss. He cannot masturbate to thoughts of his boss while his boss is on the phone with him.  
  
… _After,_ though, all bets are off.

"I, uh, I actually thought you had second thoughts about the whole firing me thing." Bucky tries to keep his voice light and casual, but _he's_ not the one with five MTV Movie Awards, and he's pretty sure he's as transparent as freshly washed glass.

"Ah, yeah." Steve clears his throat. "I'm sorry, I meant to get in touch yesterday, but, well…" Steve's words trail off, and though Bucky holds his breath, waiting, there's nothing but ringing silence.

"It's okay. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to." Bucky cringes, realizing his words are saying one thing, but the tone of his voice is saying the exact opposite. He sounds like a petulant child.

"No, it's just I was… busy."

"It's fine. Really, you don't owe me any explanations." Bucky takes a deep breath. "If you're calling to fire me, it's okay, I understand. I promise I won't cry about it." _On the phone at least._

"What? Bucky, no. It's nothing like that. I just, well. I spent the night in the hospital."

"Wait. What? You were in the _hospital_?”

"Yeah, but I'm fine. I was only kept overnight for observation. They really didn't have to, but Sam is a little overzealous in these situations, leans in to precautionary measures."

Dread settles in Bucky's gut. He doesn't want to ask, he really, _really_ doesn't, but he has to. "And what—I mean, why were you…?" He can't get the rest of the question out, but Steve takes pity on him and answers anyway.

"It's just a mild concussion."

The strangled, gurgling noise tears from Bucky's throat before he can stop it. Oh, Jesus. He leans forward, seriously concerned he's about to throw up and doesn't want to get it on the couch. "The door?" he croaks.

"The door," Steve agrees.

"Oh, god. I am so…" Bucky stalls. _Sorry_ just isn’t enough in this situation. He should be sending Steve flowers or a gift basket… or his letter of resignation.

Steve sighs heavily. "This is why I didn't want to tell you. I knew you'd think it was your fault."

 _“_ It _was_ my fault. _I hit you in the face with a door._ ”

"It was an accident."

"Well, yeah, but I still did it." Bucky says quietly. “Are you _sure_ you’re okay? Have you been released? Are you at home? I can bring you… stuff. Whatever you need, just give me a list. I can be there in, uh, maybe half an hour?" He glances down at the towel around his waist. "Forty-five minutes tops."

Steve's voice is warm but firm. “Thank you, but I'm fine. I didn't get much sleep last night and I'm about to crash for a few hours," he says, stifling a yawn, “but I didn't want you to spend all day thinking you were fired. I guess I was a little late on that one," he chuckles again. "My shooting schedule's been delayed for a week until the, uh…"

Bucky winces, knowing somehow things are about to get worse. "The what?"

"Until the worst of the swelling and bruising subsides," Steve says gently.

Bucky's head drops to his chest. "And this is the part when you tell me I'm getting sent the hospital bill or slapped with an assault charge, or being sued for lost wages?" he mutters.

The husky laugh is enough to make Bucky's traitorous dick twitch. "No, this is the part where I ask if you have all you need to get onto the lot and find my trailer?"

"Uh-huh" The packet Sam had delivered to him is stuffed full of maps, a copy of Steve's current calendar, a work phone, and a million more things that require attention before he is officially due to start his new job tomorrow.

"Great. Meet me there next Monday. Eight in the morning."

"That's a week away. I can help you at home while you're… recovering. Clean or cook or do errands or—"

"I've been taking care of myself for the majority of my thirty-five years, Bucky. I'm pretty sure I can manage it for one more week."

"Oh, yeah, of course," Bucky murmurs, his one-track brain supplying vivid images of how Steve had been _taking care of himself_ before blurring into ways that _he_ could take care of Steve, instead.

"So, Monday! Eight!" Bucky says much too brightly. "I'll be there with bells on!" He ends the call before looking down at the screen in horror. He had hung up on Steve Rogers without so much as a goodbye or a thank you for not firing me after I caused you grievous bodily harm. He throws the phone onto the coffee table like it's just bitten him and collapses onto the couch.

He won't see Steve for a week. Seven days. Why does that feel like a lifetime? But, no, maybe it's a good thing. He can use the time to figure out how to deactivate the moron mode that Steve seems to trigger. All the alpha has to do is open his mouth or look Bucky's way, and he's a stuttering, leaking, throbbing mess. It's going to lead to disaster— _worse disasters_ —if he can't get a handle on it.

Maybe he just needs to try some good old fashioned immersion therapy. It worked for Clint and spiders. He should just binge all of Steve's movies, bombard his brain with that perfect face until it becomes old hat, just a bunch of shapes and forms that have no effect on him whatsoever. And once he hears that honeyed voice—thick, rich and delicious—enough times, it'll stop rolling down his spine and making him leak… right?

He grabs the remote from the coffee table. After a moment of searching, he's staring at a list of movies starring Steve Rogers. There are fourteen films available to stream, and he clicks one at random.

It turns out to be an earlier movie, one he's never seen. But his anticipation turns to horror as the opening credits give way to a shirtless Steve sitting on a couch eating ice cream.

_’I’m not a vanilla type of guy.’_

Steve's voice echoes through Bucky's head in phantom surround sound, drawing a pitiful whimper from his throat. The more interesting fantasies—the ones he wasn't aware he even had until he'd met Steve—take center stage in his mind. He battles the urge to grind his aching ass back against the couch… and loses.

Abandoning the remote, he reaches for the towel and untucks it, shoving it out of the way impatiently. The throbbing in his dick is heavy and insistent, and he grips it tight, imagining it in a hand much larger than his. Steve's writing on his arm winks at him as he works himself fast and tight, unable to stop the pathetic, needy little noises catching high in the back of his throat. He's so close already. The thought of Steve's hand on him, giving him pleasure, _demanding_ it from him, filthy words dripping from those sinful lips, telling him he's such a good boy, and—oh—fuck—

Steve's wrong, Bucky decides when his brain comes back online; that was pretty easy and definitely worth having. He hums sleepily as he runs his fingers through the mess coating his chest. In fact, after a nap, he's going to take another shower and have a few more.

Maybe a week spent with fingers wrapped around and in himself is _exactly_ what he needs. Work out all this pent up sexual frustration, wring the fantasies from his body with toe-curling orgasms, one after the other. By the time next Monday arrives, his dick will be so chafed it won't even be able to think of poking its head up into situations it clearly doesn't belong.

Happy with his plan, Bucky drifts off to the sound of Steve's golden voice rumbling through his tv speakers.


	4. A Morphine Shot and a Bandage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Shit! Bucky! Are you okay?" Steve is hovering over him, strong hands gently extricating his legs from their steel traps before running up the length of them, squeezing carefully, apparently feeling for damage. It's a wasted effort—the only thing hurting right now is his pride; that needs a morphine shot and a bandage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Love how much you guys are lovings this. Apologies for the second-hand embarrassment, there may be a little more ahead. (Sorry, blame Bucky, not me--it's worth it, though, promise! ;))
> 
> ii. How will Bucky's first real day at work go? Will there be more conussions? Did his plan work? All these questions and more are about to be answered. Please strap yourself in and enjoy. :)

Standing on the trailer steps, Bucky tries his best to look inconspicuous, but if the glances he's drawing from the people bustling around the lot are anything to go by, he's failing spectacularly.

Still, he counts it as a win that no one has pegged him as a creepy stalker type and alerted security to have him hauled away. But that doesn't do much for the fact he's still here, without any idea what he's supposed to do while waiting for Steve.

He'd arrived on time—ten minutes early, even—but no one had been inside. And he hadn't felt right about disrupting the people rushing by—all moving with purpose—terrified of putting a foot wrong and making an ass of himself, or worse, reflecting poorly on Steve. He was told to meet Steve here, so here is where he'll wait until Steve shows up… or until he's kicked out when they shut down production for the night.

Hopefully, it doesn't come to that—Nat's coming around to his place tonight to celebrate or commiserate his first day, depending on how it goes. The choice of pizza is his, which means pineapple, and the alcohol is hers, which means vodka, straight… which means a hangover from hell—something to look forward to regretting tomorrow.

He sinks down onto the furthermost step from the ground and starts drawing swooping lines over his forearm, executing a perfect rendition of Steve's signature. Though the marks have faded, he'd traced them enough times in the last week that he'd be able to do a decent forgery in a pinch, and oh, hey, he should add that to his list of skills on his resume because that's not disturbing at all.

Bucky shifts on his perch, wrapping his arms across his chest. If he's honest with himself, he has to admit that half of him is secretly pleased that Steve's not here yet. His week spent trying to overcome his inconvenient crush had backfired a little unexpectedly. Instead of his dick realizing it was being punished for its inappropriate reaction, the constant attention he'd given it with Steve's face playing on his tv or the back of his eyelids had triggered some kind of Pavlovian boner response. And, to add injury to insult, he's pretty sure he's given himself a moderate case of masturbation-induced RSI, too.

"Bucky. You made it."

Steve's voice has Bucky's head snapping up like a dog offered a treat, and he feels chagrinned until he lays eyes on Steve and gives himself a pass, because, _holy fuck_. Steve is decked out in his full Captain America costume, complete with a little fake blood—at least, Bucky hopes that's fake—and some oddly sexy dirt and sweat-damp hair that should not be _that_ attractive but Jesus, it really is. Bucky knows his jaw has fallen open, can feel his eyes edging wide, but he can't do a damn thing about either, because somewhere in the back of his brain a bell is ringing, and he's rising to the occasion.

Steve stops at the steps and peers down at him expectantly, and Bucky knows he's supposed to answer, but for the life of him, he can't remember the question. Was it even a question? Steve's pearly whites flash again as he extends his hand. Without thinking, Bucky reaches out to take it, slipping his own into Steve's much larger one. Goosebumps skate down his spine a split second before he's being pulled to his feet.

_"Oh!"_ Bucky stumbles down the two trailer steps, only saved from crashing into a very solid chest by Steve's hands clamping on to his hips and halting his inertia. He jerks forward then back, and through the whiplash, a small part of him mourns the lost chance to faceplant right into that silver star, but the thought is overshadowed by the realization Steve hasn't lifted those hands from his hips. And, okay, that's a pretty great consolation prize.

"Are you alright?"

Bucky just nods, not wanting to speak or even _breathe_ lest it makes Steve release him. Although, Steve holding him is becoming a problem very quickly. More of his blood is diverging, rushing to heat his skin under Steve's hands… and a little further south, too.

"I'm good," he finally breathes out, breaking the spell that only he seems to be caught in. Steve is looking down at him with a raised brow, seemingly impervious to the thick cloud of _oh, fuck, please_ that is fogging Bucky's brain. But one thought pierces the haze: if Steve moves a step closer, there'll be no hiding exactly how _good_ he is. "I—uh, your face is perfect. I—no—I mean, bruising, swelling, it doesn't…uh, it just…you know."  
  
"I heal pretty quickly," Steve hums lowly.  
  
"Oh, that's… good." Bucky tries to ignore the way Steve's hands are burning brands into his skin. "I wish I did," he babbles, "but yeah, me? Not so much. My skin must just love bruises, holds on to them, y'know?"  
  
Steve's gaze turns dark, and Bucky swallows audibly, wondering if the alpha's head is filling with the same visions exploding in his—Steve spending days marking up Bucky's body with his hands and mouth, coaxing a sunset from his skin—deep reds and purples and yellows— Bucky _claimed_ for all the world to see.  
  
"Uuhhh, I, um," Bucky gives his head a little shake, trying to dispel the images. "I really am sorry about the whole, uh, door and concussion and halting production thing. Everyone must be kinda pissed at me, huh?"  
  
"No one that matters," Steve draws out slowly. "You need to stop beating yourself up about that, Buck…you'll bruise."  
  
The nickname knocks the breath from Bucky's lungs and he pinches his lip between his teeth so hard he's mildly surprised not to feel blood running down his chin. So many replies coil on his tongue—all of them involving the word _Sir_ , and none of them professional in the least—but he's saved from further humiliation when Steve's gaze darts to his own forearm. Bucky follows it to find his own hand tracing mindless patterns over the details of Steve's suit. He freezes, but doesn't lift them; that would only add weight to the assumption that it is an utterly unintentional touch. Shockingly, his brain throws him an assist instead of fucking off out of his ear for once, and he taps his fingers on the skin-tight blue sleeve. "You're already in costume. How long have you been here? I thought you started at eight?"

“No, _you_ start at eight; I’ve been here since five.”

_"Five?"_ Bucky frowns. Shit, that's early; he hadn't even flopped into bed until two. "Why didn't you tell me to arrive earlier? I could have helped you—" He gestures at Steve's patriotically-wrapped body.

At last, Steve lifts his hands from Bucky's hips to cross over his own chest. "Helped dress me?" His smirk pushes a pretty dimple into his cheek.

Bucky can feel his face burning, and he surreptitiously tilts his hips back as more blood heats and expands at that thought. "Uh…if," Bucky squeaks before clearing his throat. "If that's what you needed help with, then yeah. It looks like it takes a gallon of oil and a run-up to get into that thing. I think you could use all the hands you can get."

The smirk blooms into a full-blown smile, and Bucky tries not to swoon. Steve leans in conspiratorially—close enough for Bucky to smell the sweat clinging to his skin, a salty note pushing through those sweet ice-cream scented blockers—and whispers, "Don't tell anyone, but it takes me twenty minutes to get into this damned get-up. Everyday I seriously consider just turning up to set naked and letting them add the suit in post. Thanks for the idea of oil and an extra set of hands, though, I'll keep them in mind," he winks.

Anddddd now Bucky is picturing Steve covering himself in baby oil, his hand sliding up and down his—oh, shit. Bucky loses his battle to keep the small strangled noise trapped in his throat where it belongs.

"Steve! There you are! I've been looking for you everywhere."

Bucky jumps backward so fast his feet fall and catch in the gaps between the steps, and he goes down, landing on his ass, hard. Thankfully the shock overrides the pain, though he knows he's going to feel it later.

"Shit! _Bucky!_ Are you okay?" Steve is hovering over him, strong hands gently extricating his legs from their steel traps before running up the length of them, squeezing carefully, apparently feeling for damage. It's a wasted effort—the only thing hurting right now is his pride; _that_ needs a morphine shot and a bandage.

"Yeah, all good. Just—" Bucky waves a hand vaguely "—y'know, gravity. It plays tricks on me a lot. It's okay, my ass is used to taking a pounding—" He clamps his lips together as the words leaving his mouth, filter-free as always, reach his ears. From the feel of it, Bucky's pretty sure his face is suffering third-degree burns and requires immediate medical attention. _Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck._

Steve is staring at him like… like… Bucky shivers. He's not exactly sure he can put a name to the emotion storming over Steve's face, doesn't think he's ever seen it before. It's… intense.

But then Steve's twisting away, and Bucky looks over to find the blonde from the convention center—Sally? Sherry? S… Something's—hand on Steve's shoulder, smiling at him sweetly, ignoring Bucky completely.

"Honey, we need to run lines. I keep getting stuck on that stupid third paragraph. I swear Bruce gives me shit lines on purpose."

_Honey.  
  
_The word shocks through Bucky's system as effectively as an ice water I.V., and he can feel the heated blood drain from his face.  
  
_Honey._  
  
Are Steve and Pretty-but-Pissy an item? His skin flashes hot then cold as panic starts buzzing at the base of his skull. He's completely misread the situation. Though it's not like he'd been expecting Steve to drop to his knees and propose—or do any other ecstasy-filled activities while he's down there—Bucky could have sworn there's some kind of…connection. A flirtation? A spark.

_Oh, shit._

He resists the urge to smack his forehead. How could he have been so stupid? Of course there isn't a fucking spark. Steve is Steve fucking Rogers, and Bucky is… well. He's Steve's assistant and that's it. The only embers catching are the ones in his delusional fantasies, and they've just gone up in flames.

Steve's voice is rumbling above him, but Bucky can't make out the words—they sound distorted as they pass through the roaring white noise of panic pulsing in his brain. He scrambles to his feet, shakily, pleased to note his dick has wilted under the harsh glare of reality, and he can blame the little trembling in his body on the fall.

"Oh, I'm sure he doesn't mind. After messing up your face and schedule it's the least he can do, isn't it, Benji?"

_"Bucky,"_ Steve corrects immediately, frowning up at Bucky as he straightens. "And he's not in any state to—"

"No, I'm fine. I'm good. I don't mind," Bucky chirps quickly, forcing too much brightness into his tone to compensate for the bleakness filling his chest, no idea what he's agreeing to, but hoping it's something that will take him far, far away.

"Great. Black with two sugars."

_Coffee._ Bucky nods. He can do that. He jumps from his spot on the third step. His knees protest the landing, but the rest of him is just grateful not to have to brush past Steve to get to the ground. "All good. I'll be back in a jiffy." _Jiffy?_ Bucky rolls his eyes at himself as he takes off in the general direction of the craft services table, pleased he'd put in the time last night to memorize the studio lot map.

He finds it without trouble, takes a disposable cup, and fills it with the requested brew—black like her soul—and two sugars. He briefly ponders dumping an extra ten sachets into the liquid—she could sure use the artificial sweetness; she seems to be lacking any of the natural kind. He stirs it distractedly, trying to figure out what the hell Steve sees in someone like her. Not that he knows her that well, granted, but after last week and this morning, he feels like he knows all he needs to. And she doesn't seem like a good fit for Steve—he's so sweet and genuine and kind, and Sharon is… less so.

He tells himself it's a completely unbiased opinion, not at all motivated by jealousy, and by the time he's popped a plastic lid on the cup and is dragging his feet back to the trailer, he's almost convinced himself.

Hand raised an inch from the closed door, Bucky hesitates. Is he supposed to knock? Just walk in? He lets his knuckles rap against their target three times, deciding it's better to be safe than sorry. He doesn't want to _interrupt_ something he doesn't want to see.

The door swings open almost immediately, and he has to retreat a step to avoid being knocked on his ass again.

Steve motions him inside. "For future reference, you don't have to knock. Consider this your space as much as mine whenever you're on the lot."

Bucky nods before ducking his head, trying to hide his face until he can wipe the pleased little smile from his lips. He knows it's just logical to have a place on the occasion he's waiting for Steve, but it feels inexplicably nice to have Steve share his space with him so willingly.

Sharon takes the cup from his hand without a glance or thank you, and spins to Steve. "I'm just saying that it makes more sense to include it. The guy is ninety-five, not dead. It's unrealistic to think he's not feeling those urges, especially after the serum."

"Realism is a bridge too far for a movie based on comic books, Shar." Steve smiles. "I can go to bat for you with Quill, but you know how he is, if it doesn't fit with his vision for the story, he's not going to include it."

"He doesn't have to, I just think he should film it so he has options later. Besides, a love scene will help sell tickets," Sharon murmurs, raking perfectly manicured nails down Steve's chest. She winks up at him before taking a sip of coffee and grimacing. "Oh, damn. I forgot I'm off sugar until after the shoot." She thrusts the cup out to Bucky. "Brock, be a dear and get me just a plain black."

Steve grabs the cup out of Sharon's hand. " _Bucky_ is not your personal errand boy."

"No, he's _yours._ But since you're not putting him to use, he doesn't mind fetching me coffee, do you?" She turns narrowed eyes and a saccharine smile toward Bucky.

Bucky shakes his head, slotting his fingers between Steve's and gently working the cup out of his grasp, ignoring the warmth radiating from the large hand under his. He forces his lips up in a tight smile over clenched teeth. Without a word, he spins on his heel and marches out of the trailer.

_"Fucking bitch,"_ Bucky seethes. A redhead wearing a headset startles, and he offers an apologetic glance and head shake as he rushes past, mentally vowing to put two bucks in his newly christened swear jar.

He tosses the unacceptable coffee into the bin by the table and grabs a new cup. Forgot she was off coffee, his ass. She knew exactly what she was doing, making sure Bucky knows the pecking order and that he is unequivocally on the very bottom. He shoves a lid on the fresh cup of steaming black liquid and starts back with long strides, not wanting Goldilocks to send him back for cup number three because this one's too cold.

He takes the four steps two at a time and marches through the open door without so much as a pause. Again, Sharon takes the cup without any acknowledgment and promptly puts it on the small table beside her and ignores it.

Bucky silently seethes a little more.

As if picking up on the murderous vibes, Steve motions for Bucky to sit beside him on the couch curved in a U around the table. "I guess now is as good a time as any to go over things."

There's not much room between the end of the couch and the spot Steve's sprawled on, and Bucky lowers himself carefully, trying to keep a cushion of space between them, not trusting his traitorous dick to keep its head down. Because while Steve may be kind enough to show him mercy and feign ignorance for his painfully obvious reactions, Sharon doesn't seem to have a kind bone in her body. Well, maybe except for when Steve…

Oh, no. Bucky cannot finish _that_ thought.

"Steve," Sharon sighs. The word is half whine, half reprimand.

"They'll be calling us back any minute; I need to fill Bucky in before then."

Bucky hears the _'I need to fill Bucky'_ and then his brain glitches and he clenches, his ass feeling suddenly, _achingly_ empty.

"Fine," Sharon huffs, perching herself on the edge of the table next to her victory coffee.

"I take it Sam gave you a list of your expected duties?" Steve asks, ignoring Sharon and shifting to better look at Bucky, knocking their knees together.

With those ocean eyes staring at him, Bucky completely forgets about Little Miss Bitchy and the coffee and every other thing that's wrong in the world. He nods slowly, his brain pulling up the laundry list of tasks Sam had assigned him.

"Forget about all of it."

Bucky's brain stalls midway through alphabetizing the list, half-expecting a random pop quiz on his duties. "Wh-what?" Bucky blinks at Steve stupidly.

"Look, I know—" Steve breaks off, turning toward the harassed looking guy now poking his head through the trailer door.

"They're ready for you guys."

"Finally," Sharon mutters, sliding off the table. "Come on, babe."

_Babe._  
  
Bucky battles back the bile creeping up his throat.

Steve frowns. "You go ahead. I'll be right behind you."

"Steeeve." Sharon plants her hands on her hips and pouts.

"I'll be right behind you," Steve repeats before turning back to Bucky.

Bucky watches Sharon shoot daggers in his direction from the corner of his eye before she stomps out of the trailer, sans coffee.

"I know you know I didn't want an assistant." Steve shakes his head as Bucky opens his mouth to protest. "We both know you heard me talking to Sam. It's nothing personal, Bucky. I've never had one before. I like to be in control… " he pauses, and the weight of those words crush down on Bucky's chest until he's sure he's at very real risk of suffocation "…to look after things myself. But it's in my contract for this film that I have an assistant. And though Sam hired you, you are under my purview. You answer to me. You're here for my benefit, and to that end, I'm going to ask you to do the things I ask of you, and _only_ those things. Is that understood?"

Held captive by the words as much as the intense stare pinning him in place, Bucky pushes the affirmation out with what little air remains in his lungs. "Yes, of course, Sir—S-Steve."

Ocean eyes narrow but don't release him. "Good boy."

The pulse of heat in Bucky's groin has him curling his toes in his boots, trying to keep from achieving maximum humiliation and coming for Steve without expressed direction or desire. His ass is throbbing, and the minute Steve is out the door, Bucky plans to grind down on this fucking couch until he ruins his underwear. He'll be a mess before Steve reaches the bottom step.

"Why don't you come to set? Hang out and watch a few takes? I'll introduce you to everyone."

"Mhm," Bucky manages to grind out while screaming internally. "Yeah, that sounds… good." Oh, that sounds very, very bad. He jumps to his feet, turning his back on Steve almost immediately before he's struck with sudden panic, and twists back to glance at the couch, needing to make sure he hadn't left an obvious wet patch. But the liner in his underwear is doing its job, and he's immensely grateful he'd worn one today, not sure what his body's reaction to the flesh and blood Steve would be.

Steve unfolds from the couch, and Bucky scoots ahead a few paces, making it down the steps from the trailer stiffly before Steve is ducking through the door. But those long legs eat up the ground quickly, and though Bucky tries to stay ahead, Steve falls into step beside him anyway.

"I have to attend a Bonding at the end of the month. I'll need you to arrange the flights and accommodation for us and pick out a gift. Something from their registry, something nice." From his peripheral vision, Bucky can see Steve glance his way, but he doesn't turn to meet the gaze. "I trust your taste. I've emailed you the details."

Bucky thrills knowing that his first official task for Steve is an important one. The new line of conversation helps distract his dick, too. "No problem. Does Sharon have any particular needs I should be aware of?" _Virgin's blood? Time set aside for ritual sacrifices? Lemons to suck on?_

Steve guides him through a door into a studio set up like a hotel lobby. It's so realistic Bucky's steps falter and his mouth drops open. Steve chuckles, placing a hand on the small of his back and ushering him forward, steering him deftly through the mass of people toting cameras and wires, microphones on giant poles, and a dozen other things he doesn't know the name of.

"Sharon won't be joining me."

Steve's hand feels like a brand on Bucky's back, and he's torn between melting into the touch and jerking away. In the end, he does nothing, letting Steve move him where he wants while trying to drag his brain back on track.

“Ah, um, but you said _us?”_

Steve comes to a stop, motioning Bucky to a black director's chair with _Steve Rogers_ embroidered across it in bright white thread. “Yes, _us_ ; you and me.”

Bucky's knees give out just as he sinks into the chair. He crosses his legs immediately, trying not to wince at the pressure. "You want me to co—um, go with you?"

"Didn't Sam tell you the job would involve traveling?"

"Yeah, but I thought it meant press junkets or premieres, not, um, bonding ceremonies."

"Got something against them?"

Bucky squirms in his chair. He wants to say, yeah, they're sexually charged and much more intimate than they should be for a public gathering filled with friends, family, and total strangers. All the single guests drink too much and search for anything warm and willing so they can forget they're sad and alone, and he doesn't trust that he won't embarrass himself if put in that position with Steve. Instead, he forces his lips up. "Nope. That sounds… nice."

Two women come and flank Steve, touching up his hair and makeup and clothes, but Steve's eyes don't shift from Bucky. "Yeah, it should be fun."

Fun isn't the word Bucky would use. Unless… will Steve be one of the drunken revelers looking to get his knot wet? He wouldn't, would he? Not while he's dating Goldilocks…

"Places, everyone!"

The voice snaps Bucky out of his ponderings and sends people scurrying off in a dozen different directions at once, but Steve is still looking down at him, eyes sparkling. "Don't worry; you'll have some downtime. I promise not to ride you too hard," he murmurs before he's gone, leaving Bucky to gape after him.

Steve has to know how his words sound; he _has_ to. He can’t _not_ know what he’s saying. Sure, Bucky has an overactive imagination that plays in the gutter more often than it should—and given the circumstances, that's to be expected—but even so, if he didn't know better, he'd say Steve is flirting…

But he _does_ know better. He's not going to let his daydreams sweep him off his feet and put his head in the clouds again. If he can't get a handle on these delusions, he's going to need an intervention, and probably medication, too.

The call of _action_ pulls Bucky's focus, and he watches Steve brush a blonde lock of hair behind Sharon's ear. He finds himself leaning forward, chasing the soft words falling from Steve's lips that go with the longing looks, but they're lost to the distance. Bucky holds his breath, watching Steve cup the omega's face before bringing their lips together. Sharon presses into Steve's space, arms locking around his neck as her mouth opens for him. The space between the set and Bucky is not enough to swallow up the hungry growl rumbling in Steve's chest.

Bucky's heart drops to his feet, and his gaze follows it down. Jealousy stabs into his gut like a red-hot knife. It's an entirely inappropriate reaction, but he wants to fly across the room, rip them apart, and throw himself into Steve's embrace instead. But at least the little display had put paid to the pressure in his pants.

Fighting to keep his breathing even, he pulls the work phone from his pocket. Steve's love life is none of his concern. He was hired to assist him, not date him.

He pulls up the email with the destination bonding details and scans it before starting his search for suitable accommodation for the planned dates. He can do this, he _is_ doing this—focusing on his job, not whose lips Steve's are attached to.

Bucky jabs at the screen with his finger, grim satisfaction shadowing each harsh tap. He opens tab after tab of possible choices, narrowing it down to three, then two, going back and forth five times comparing photos and prices and features before deciding on one.

He pays for it with the saved card details on the phone, and pride swells inside him as the phone chirps with the booking confirmation. _He did it._ His first official task as a personal assistant, completed.

He can hear voices around him, a dull background hum, but he tunes it out and focuses on the next item on his to-do list: going back to the email and clicking on the online registry link. He scrolls through the options, trying not to balk at the cost of the ridiculous, frivolous items splashed across the screen. He opens his favorites in new tabs, deciding to wait and show Nat the options on offer, knowing she'll get a kick out of the six hundred dollar ladle and twenty thousand dollar lamp. Nothing like a little retail therapy on someone else's black card while doing vodka shots and eating pizza on a threadbare couch.

"Please don't buy the lamp; that's just tragic."

Bucky's head jerks up to find an affable looking guy sitting in the chair beside him; neck craned to see the phone in Bucky's hands. So caught up in his job, Bucky hadn't even heard the guy sit down. "I don't know, I think it has a certain charm. The red on the white is very vibrant."

"It looks like it's come straight from a crime scene," the guy counters.

"It would look good at night, all lit up, throwing blood splatter shadows on the wall."

"Turn the whole room into a giant Pollock painting," the guy agrees, nodding.

The laugh bubbles over Bucky's lips before he can stop it. "Alright, I'll remove it from the shortlist."

"I've gotta tell you, I'm a little disappointed that it was _on_ your shortlist to begin with." The stranger grins. "You're Steve's PA, right?"

"Yeah, Bucky."

"I'm Scott. Scott Lang. It's nice to meet you, Bucky."

Bucky's smile wavers under Scott's stare. He starts fidgeting with the phone as the seconds tick by and the appraising look doesn't seem any closer to lifting. "Do I… have something on my face?" He runs fingers around his lips.

"Shit. No, sorry. I was just wondering how you did it."

"Did what?"

"Got Steve to hire you. He's very famously said he'd never have an assistant, and yet, here you are, assisting."

"Oh. Um…" Bucky shrugs carefully. Scott seems nice enough, but he doesn't know how much Steve has shared about him and, well, he doesn't _know_ why Steve decided to keep him around. "You'd have to ask Steve. How did _you_ do it?”

Scott cocks his head to the side. "What?"

"Get a job in the movie? You are in it, right?" Bucky motions to the elaborate costume. "Fuck, I'm sorry, that sounded bad. I just mean, with the whole male omega thing…"

Scott waves away the apology. "Do you remember that ad campaign for male omega rights last year?"

Bucky nods. It had been a big thing for precisely three weeks before some ridiculous celebrity divorce had grabbed the headline news story.

"When people made a stink on social media, boycotting different companies that had outdated views, the Powers That Be in charge of this movie tried to pre-empt that and released a statement saying they'd hired a male omega for a role in the sequel."

"And that was you?"

Scott snorts derisively. "No, at that stage, they hadn't actually hired anyone. I think they were just trying to get ahead of the inevitable callout, figured it would all die down, and people would forget. But then they were lauded for being so progressive they had to actually follow through with it. And then, yeah, me."

"That's kind of…"

"Complete bullshit? Yeah. But a small victory is still a victory, even if it's done for less-than-pure motivations." Scott winks at Bucky. "My part in this movie may have been granted under duress, and will no doubt be edited down to the smallest amount of screen time possible, but it's a start. We can only hope the ones that come after do better."

Bucky stares at Scott for a full minute until he shrugs sheepishly.

"Too much?"

"No, sorry. I just…" Bucky tries to shape the emotions rushing through him into words to no avail. He knows the assholes that view male omegas as freaks of nature well. The ratio of one male omega to every one hundred female omegas had been a constant source of suffering when growing up. His mother had cradled him in her arms, brushed away his tears, and called him her unicorn, telling him the rarity that made him a treasure also made him a target. He'd kept the words close to his heart as he'd grown, especially once she passed, but he still can't help but rage at those who see him as _less than_. He doesn't know how Scott could stare into the face of those bigots and smile. "You're a better person than me, that's all," he says finally.

Understanding and shared experience soften Scott's face as he shakes his head. "Nah, I just have better taste. That lampshade? Honestly." Scott tuts and Bucky laughs.

"I see you've met Lang already."

Steve's voice makes Bucky jump, and he fumbles the phone, barely catching it before it slips from his lap to the floor. "Uh-huh."

"I was just asking Bucky how he managed to convince you to hire him as your PA. Last I heard, you were an alpha control freak who wanted to do it all yourself."

Steve's small smile at Scott's words disappears as a shorter, brunet alpha sidles up beside him.

"That's just the famous Rogers bravado. Overcompensating, if you ask me."

"No one asked you, Stark," Steve mutters darkly.

"No one _ever_ asks you, Tony," Scott confirms cheerfully.

Bucky's curiosity is lighting up Mario-sized question mark blocks in his mind, wanting to know what Steve is supposed to be overcompensating for, but he keeps his lips glued together for fear of embarrassing himself—or worse, _Steve._

"It's because no one wants to hear the truth, Scotty boy. And speaking of boys—" Tony claps his hands together, a wide grin splitting his lips "—what are the odds of having two rare boymegas here, at the same time, sitting together. Do you just naturally gravitate toward each other, or is there some kind of mailing list for meetups?"

"Stark—" Steve growls, but Scott's hearty chuckle cuts him off.

"You really shouldn't use big words you don't understand, Tony. You might say them to the wrong person one day and end up losing a few of your perfect teeth."

"What? Boymegas? Isn't that what you call yourselves these days?"

Bucky bristles, but keeps his lips sealed.

"Some of us do, yeah," Scott confirms, "but it doesn't mean _you_ should. Like I shouldn't call myself an asshole when I'm not one of you guys, you know?"

"Ouch," Tony clutches his chest, face twisting into a mock-wounded expression. "You misunderstand me. I meant no offense. I'm all for you being the token poster boy for male omega rights. I do not discriminate—the only thing I care about is putting the _me_ in _omegas_ , of any and all varieties."

"Shocking news," Steve mutters dryly.

"Lang, get over here!"

Scott all but jumps off the chair. "Duty calls!" With a jaunty salute, he trots off toward the summons, waving to people on his way. Bucky can't help but smile, watching him go. He can tell Scott is one of the good ones.

Tony takes the free seat immediately, leaning back and twisting to face Bucky. "So. Bucky—it is Bucky, isn't it?—I'd bet good money that Steve doesn't have you doing anything but sitting pretty, am I right? Emphasis on the pretty."

"Actually," Steve grinds out, placing a hand on Bucky's arm, angling his body between the omega and Tony, "I was just about to send Bucky to the store."

"Wow, even gotta answer for him, Rogers? You're really still trying to claw your way out from under those headlines, aren't you?" Tony grins.

Bucky ignores the jab, too wholly fixated on the large hand resting on his arm. Beneath it, his skin is burning, and he's pretty sure when Steve lifts his hand, there'll be a handprint brand below. He swallows thickly and drags his eyes up to Steve, startling when he finds those blue eyes already fixed on him. "You were?"

A muscle tics over Steve's jaw. "Yeah. I don't want you to get bored sitting here watching us film all day." His eyes flick to Tony as he says it. "C'mon," he jerks his head to the side, "I left the list in my trailer. I guess I'll need to give you the key to my place, too," he adds as an afterthought.

Bucky pushes from the chair and follows Steve, feeling very much like he's being led to the principal's office… until Tony's booming voice rings out behind them.

"Ahh, the old 'left the list in my trailer' excuse, huh? They're just resetting the scene, Rogers, so if it's not a quickie, you're going to get interrupted."

And now, Bucky feels like something else entirely.

He fights the urge to duck his head as his cheeks bloom into color. Instead, he straightens and rushes to keep pace with Steve, pointedly ignoring the openly curious glances now locked on him. He fixes his eyes on the center of Steve's back, watching the muscles move under his costume hypnotically. Steve is so broad and getting broader and how is that even poss—

"Shit. Sorry!" Bucky says as he peels himself off of Steve's back. "I didn't see you stop," he mutters.

Steve turns, looking down at him darkly, and Bucky wonders if this is it, the moment he gets fired for… actually, he's not sure what for. Just like he's not sure why Steve had changed his mind from introducing him to everyone to banishing him. He must have done something wrong; he just doesn't know what that something is.

"I'm sorry about Tony. He can be…" Steve's face pinches tighter "…an asshole," he sighs.

"It's okay." Bucky shrugs dismissively. "It usually comes with alpha territory. I'm used to it."

Something flashes in Steve's eyes, and for one heart-stopping moment, Bucky is filled with the certainty that Steve is about to roar at him—or kiss him. Both are absurd options, and yet, Bucky is surprised when Steve just flashes him a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes, nor soothe the creases between his brows, then turns away.

Bucky stands at the bottom of the steps, not even enjoying the view as Steve stomps up them and disappears into the trailer. There's a strangely detached sensation rushing through him like he's suddenly become untethered from the world.

After the interaction with Tony, Bucky would swear that Steve is…interested? But, no. He is not going down that fanboy rabbit hole again. The possessiveness Steve had displayed is textbook alpha posturing—Bucky is Steve's assistant, and in his alpha brain, that's the same as being _his_. Another alpha showing interest in Bucky had probably triggered the whole _mine_ switch, and now he's being sent away so Steve doesn't have to share his toys.

And, shit. The idea of being Steve's toy, _his plaything_ has Bucky spiraling back down to dark and dangerous waters—images of Steve fucking into him hard, just taking his pleasure, makes Bucky's ass ache and slick up immediately. He squirms as the liquid slides between the smooth skin of his ass.

"Bucky? Are you coming?"

_Almost._

"Uh, yeah, yep," Bucky manages to push out breathlessly, starting up the trailer steps, trying to ignore the moisture leaking over his skin as Steve ducks back inside. It's fine, _he's_ fine, he can do this. Buying groceries and taking them to Steve's home is simple—easy, even.

He just has to stop at _his_ home and change his underwear first… and maybe jerk off really quickly to thoughts of Steve driving into him until he's begging and broken. But after that, it'll be a piece of cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iii. Don't pizza-shame Bucky! Pineapple is a completely acceptable topping.


	5. A Fifty-Fifty Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am capable of walking, you know." Bucky tries to sound annoyed, but the breathless hitch in his voice ruins the impact.
> 
> "I don't know; that always seems like a fifty-fifty shot with you," Steve chuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Small update for those not following me on tumblr, we're switching up the updating schedule to once weekly for both this, disaster!Bucky, and pregnant!Bucky (Growing Pains) so those following both fics (which there are so many of you omg, <3333) aren't overwhelmed/spammed by thousands of words every week. (Sorry!) 
> 
> ii. <33333333 Thank you for all the love for me and Bucky (poor thing needs it) and Steeb! I'm all a flutter that you guys are liking their (mis)adventures.

"And? What happened? You can't stop there." Nat picks a piece of pineapple off her slice of pizza and flicks it at Bucky before taking a bite. "What is his place like? Is it nice?"

Bucky wipes the greasy smear off his cheek with the back of his hand—because of course Nat had hit her target—and rolls his eyes. "What do you think it's like? He's a movie star. He lives in a Brooklyn brownstone with polished floors, and every piece of furniture looks like it costs more than my monthly rent; nice is an understatement."

He didn't admit that it is precisely the kind of place he would buy if money were no object, and while obviously expensive, nothing in Steve's home is ostentatious. It's just cozy and well lived in, and had filled him with a voyeuristic exhilaration at seeing behind the curtain, enjoying the sense of intimacy that came from seeing the part of Steve's life that so many people don't get to see.

Nat's assessing gaze weighs on him heavily, and Bucky squirms on his chair, picking at his slice distractedly. "He didn't tell me about the dog, though. She came speeding at me like a furry bullet, I nearly sh—uh, made a mess of my underwear."

…Not that they hadn't been a mess already for entirely different, Steve-related reasons, but Nat doesn't need to know that.

Bucky tries to think cool thoughts and funnel them toward his cheeks as heat starts to bite at them, fuelled by memories of his inappropriate reactions to Steve today. He'd been proud that he'd managed to get through the rest of his workday without relieving a little pressure—though that achievement was tarnished somewhat by the fact it was the first thing crossed off his personal to-do list once he got home.

_…Twice._

As if being able to read his mind, Nat's eyes dance knowingly, and her red lips curve up as she swallows her mouthful of food. "It's not like it would have mattered much if you had—they're going to need a long wash cycle after you spent all day creaming them over Captain Alpha, anyway."

“It’s Captain _America_ , and I did not.” Bucky picks a mushroom off his slice and drops it on Nat's side of the pizza before taking a bite. He can feel her eyes on him and meets her shrewd gaze with a sigh. "Okay, so maybe just a little," he admits around the half-chewed mouthful. Nat doesn't say anything, just continues to stare at him expectantly. Finally, when he can't take it any longer, he swallows with a groan and cracks like a soft boiled egg. "Okay, fine, yeah, you're right, but Jesus, Nat, you don't understand—his eyes are so blue, like the ocean on a Caribbean postcard, and his beard, _fuck_ —I got cramps in my fingers from squeezing them into fists to stop myself from touching it to see if it's as soft as it looks—and oh, god, his stupid jawline—and his _teeth!_ He should be a poster boy for an overpriced dentist. I swear they're so ridiculously perfect and bright—brighter than my future—and I want him to sink them into me—" Bucky breaks off to suck oxygen into his aching lungs.

Nat's jaw drops lower with every word. "Wow, don't hold back on my account, Barnes. Tell me how you really feel."

Bucky upends his glass and swallows the contents down, knowing the vodka won't do anything but exacerbate the fire in his cheeks, but needing a moment to try and compose himself. Oversharing with Nat isn't anything new, but still, he needs to learn to keep _some_ shit to himself—everything he says can and _will_ be used against him at a later date of her choosing.

"But cheers to finding unexpected perks in your new job," Nat says with a smirk, raising her glass to him before taking another long swallow.

"The only unexpected perk was happening in my pants, and I'm pretty sure it didn't go unnoticed." Bucky drops his slice back onto the cardboard box, his appetite suddenly gone. "It was my real first day at work, _my first fucking day_ , and it took every ounce of my admittedly poor self-preservation instincts to stop from dropping to my knees and begging him to do whatever he wants with me. This can only end disastrously," he groans. "Do you think I should just quit now? It would be the kindest thing to do for future-me—avoid the humiliation before it happens, because it _is_ going to happen."

“First, you are _not_ quitting. I want daily debriefings; you've moved above _Scoop!_ into my number one slot for insider entertainment news. And two, you don't know it'll end badly. Maybe human disasters are Dreamboat's secret kink. You could be in with a real shot."

"Uh-huh. Sure, if he was into guys and wasn't in a relationship, I'm sure I'd come in at number fifteen hundred and seven on the list of possibilities in the immediate vicinity."

Nat makes a dismissive sound. "Hollywood relationships sour quicker than milk. He'll be single again in no time, and you'll still be available because, well, you're you—"

"Thanks," Bucky mutters.

"—and then you can have a hot, illicit affair and tell me all about it."

"An affair? That's it? That's all I get? Even in this fantasy world you're creating, I'm not able to keep him for a happily ever after?"

"I like to ground my fantasies in reality, so no, 'fraid not. But, you can have one truly mind-blowing month of nothing but the hottest alpha on the planet and be on the receiving end of enough sizable deposits to keep your spank bank full for the rest of your life."

Bucky raises a choice finger at Nat. She chuckles, but the best he can manage in response is a weak smile. The thought of having Steve and then losing him—even if only in fantasy—makes his stomach churn unpleasantly. He's never felt this before, this all-encompassing, carnal longing to give himself so completely to someone. It's unnerving but somehow pales in comparison to the thought of offering himself up in that way and being rejected.

He reaches for the bottle of vodka Nat had brought and refills both their glasses. Tonight is a celebration—he hadn't got fired—but also commiseration—working next to a guy he desperately wants but can never have is going to be hell.

Still, he can't deny the surge of pride he felt completing his assigned tasks today, small as they were. The grocery list Steve had given him only consisted of six things—milk, laundry powder, bananas, protein bars, apples, and peanut m&ms—but even picking up those items had meant Steve didn't have to, and that made Bucky feel useful.

Much to his own surprise, he likes his job and finds himself looking forward to what Steve will ask him to do next. It's like some kind of mystery adventure.

"Oh!" He fishes his work phone out of his pocket. "You have to see this. I've got to choose a bonding gift for… actually, I have no idea who it's for, but you have to see what's on their registry."

Nat grabs the half-empty vodka bottle in one hand and her glass in the other and heads for the couch. "Work was a bitch and my feet are killing me, so if I'm going to spend the next hour rolling my eyes at the questionable tastes of the rich and shouldn't be famous, I'm going to do it on the relative comfort of your couch. Bring the pizza, assisstant boy."

Bucky grimaces as sunlight pierces bright, invisible, and very painful daggers directly into his retinas. He should've worn sunglasses or at the very least, his regular glasses instead of shoving contacts into his already irritated eyes. But realizing contacts are a bad idea would have required deductive reasoning, and given his brain is still half-pickled from last night, such feats of forethought were beyond him this morning.

He and Nat hadn't spent an hour going through the registry list but six, laughing until they were crying, finishing off the first bottle of vodka before putting an unhealthy dent in the second. And now, he's paying the price.

Squinting against the light, Bucky continues his beeline to Steve's trailer. The throbbing in his head keeps time with his footsteps, his quick pace punishing his already suffering brain, but it can't be helped—he's already fifteen minutes late.

When he finally crests the last of the trailer steps and ducks inside, he squeezes his eyes shut, presses the heels of his hands to his temples like a vise, and waits for the violent thudding stabs to dull.

"Is everything alright?"

Bucky's eyes fly open as he spins on the spot, searching for Steve. The room spins with him… and keeps on spinning even after he stops. The whirling knocks him off balance and he drops to the floor, and then Steve's easy to find because he's hovering above him in full Cap regalia, face pinched in concern.

"Shit, sorry," Bucky sighs, fighting back a wave of nausea as his brain continues to ride the teacups inside his skull. If he throws up right now, it'll be the final straw. He'll have to hand in his ID—and surrender his undying hope of having a chance to run his fingers through that glorious beard—and resign. There are things that even he can't come back from, and vomiting in front of Steve Rogers rounds out the top three.

"Do you think you can stand?"

Worrying that unclenching his jaw will tempt his stomach to exploit the weakness, Bucky just nods carefully, mindful of his aching head.

Steve tucks his hands under Bucky's armpits and lifts him slowly to standing, taking the whole of his weight like he's nothing more than a ragdoll. He's glad for the assist, because Steve manhandling him is making him swoon, and he couldn't take his own weight if he wanted to. And he really, _really_ , doesn't want to; Steve's hands are large and strong and warm and are rerouting the blood pounding in his brain to lower altitudes. It should have alarm bells ringing, but oh, god, right now, it just feels _good_.

"You okay? Hurt anything that needs attention?"

 _Oh, fuck, please,_ Bucky's mind screams, very much wanting Steve's attention in the form of a hand or mouth on something that is aching more by the second. But he keeps his jaw clenched as he drags his eyes open reluctantly. He can tell immediately Steve hasn't missed the shiver that raced through him at the question—not with the barely suppressed amusement curving those perfect lips. "Nope, all good," he squeaks, locking his knees as Steve loosens his grip.

"What is it with you and gravity?" Steve grins.

"Maybe I just like being on the floor," Bucky shoots back lightly.

 _"Do you?"_ Steve's voice, low and soft, sends another tremor skittering down Bucky's spine. There's weight to the question, something dark and delicious, and his flippant reply lodges in his throat.

Three sharp raps on the door of the trailer make him startle, and Steve's hold on him tightens once more—which is good because it's the only thing stopping him from landing back on his ass.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt Mister Rogers, I was just sent to tell you there's going to be a bit of a delay." The young guy at the door has dark hair and an excited demeanor that reminds Bucky of an excited puppy. "They're having a, um, a debate about script changes."

"Thanks, Peter." The resigned sigh in Steve's voice says this is not an unusual occurrence.

Peter nods, and after a furtive glance at Bucky, he ducks back out of the trailer.

Bucky squawks in an entirely undignified fashion when his feet lift from the floor, and he clamps his hands onto ridiculously large biceps, his fingers digging into the hard muscles as Steve carries him to the couch before lowering him down on to it carefully.

"I _am_ capable of walking, you know." Bucky tries to sound annoyed, but the breathless hitch in his voice ruins the impact.

"I _don't_ know; that always seems like a fifty-fifty shot with you," Steve chuckles. He sinks onto the couch, not leaving a breath of space between them, his thick thigh pressing tight against Bucky's much smaller one.

Bucky clears his throat roughly, doing his best to pretend he isn't sitting next to the sun and his bones are slowly liquefying. "I'm sorry, I'm not usually so—"

"Hungover?"

Bucky winces. "Ah, yeah, well, that too, but I was going to say so much of a walking catastrophe."

"You don't think that's overstating things a little?"

Bucky stares at Steve incredulously. "I haven't even spent a whole day with you, and I've fallen three times, embarrassed myself countless more, and given you a concussion, so no, I think it's pretty accurate."

Steve hums thoughtfully for a moment before answering. "So what you're _really_ saying is that it's my fault, that I somehow trigger your human disaster mode?"

"Well…" Bucky grabs the life ring that is Steve's teasing smile and clings to it. "I know correlation is not causation, but considering I'm the picture of grace when you're not around…" he shrugs, struggling to keep his lips even.

Steve's laugh rumbles from his chest, and Bucky finds himself leaning closer, wanting to blanket himself in it. "Well then, it's a good thing that I'm around to pick you up when you end up on the floor. And, being the cause of your fights with gravity, it's the very least I can do."

Bucky ducks his head, knowing it's not doing a damned thing to hide his flushed cheeks, but at least hiding from Steve's gaze, he can pretend that it has gone unnoticed. "That's true, though I'm supposed to be picking things up for you, not getting picked up _by_ you."

"I don't mind," Steve murmurs.

"You will when your next assistant expects the same treatment."

"My next… Are you planning on quitting already?" The golden threads of amusement have disappeared from Steve's voice, and Bucky looks up to find blue eyes narrowed on him expectantly.

"What? Oh, no. I just mean when you…" Bucky swallows the rest of his sentence. He can't very well say _’when you stop finding my hopelessness amusing and fire me'_. "Uh, when you decide it's time for an upgrade," he finishes lamely instead before forcing a hollow laugh.

Steve stares at him wordlessly for what feels like an hour, never once lifting his gaze before shaking his head gently. "I think you're it for me, Buck. After you, anyone else would be boring," he says quietly. Bucky's heart stutters in his chest at the nickname, his damned cheeks bleeding more heat under his skin. "So, it seems we have some time to kill. Do you know how to play poker?"

Bucky nods slowly. "Are you sure you don't want me to do something else? Something more helpful than inflating your ego by letting you beat me at cards?"

"Is that what you'd do? _Let_ me win?"

"You couldn't prove otherwise," Bucky grins.

"Ahh," Steve's eyes fall shut, those ridiculously long lashes kissing his cheeks as he nods knowingly. His eyes are sparkling with delight when his lids lift. "So, you know how to play poker, but you're terrible at it?"

Bucky huffs in mock indignation. "I'm not terrible. I just have a lousy poker face."

"There's nothing lousy about your face," Steve hums softly.

Bucky can't stop from licking his lips nervously as Steve's gaze drops to them. How is he supposed to reply to _that?_ Thankfully, he's saved from attempting to come up with something other than the gurgling sound of him trying not to swallow his own tongue by another knock on the trailer door.

It's followed quickly by Peter's cheerful voice. "Your presence is required on set now, Mister Rogers!" His eyes dart to Bucky again, and his cheeks bloom into color. "Uh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt, but they've stopped fighting, um, debating, and they're ready to go."

"I'll be right there," Steve calls, and Bucky can hear Peter jumping down the trailer steps. He takes a leaf out of the kid's book and springs to his feet.

"Am I coming with you again today?" Bucky tries to look casual as he leans against the small table, watching Steve unfold himself from the couch with much more grace and power than Bucky could ever manage. The display has his legs wobbling alarmingly, but he locks his knees and thankfully remains upright… though only barely.

"No. I don't want—" Steve clamps his jaw shut, and a muscle tics over it as if trying to convey his thoughts in some kind of biological morse code. "Stay here. I shouldn't be too long, and then we can go over your hangover-friendly to-do list when I get back."

Bucky frowns at the tight smile thinning Steve's lips, but he nods and steps out of the way. "Okie dokie."

Steve's face relaxes, the pinched lines easing into delighted crinkles around his eyes as they twinkle prettily. "Okie dokie," he repeats, shoulders shaking silently as he turns and strides past Bucky. He pauses at the door and looks back. "Try to stay vertical while I'm gone, okay, Buck?"

Bucky squeaks some kind of noise that must pass for an affirmative because Steve's voice, low and approving, lingers in the doorway after he steps through.

_“That's my good boy.”_

Bucky's never broken his word quicker in his life. Taken down by four words, his knees buckle, and he ends up on the trailer floor again with a soft whimper.

Dazed and aching in places he can't blame on the fall, he realizes that he had it right last night; this will end in disaster. He's found the perfect guy, one that lights up his body and his mind in ways no one else ever has—but Steve will never be his, and Bucky's never going to be able to control his reaction to him.

Still, there's a small part of him—the small part that is throbbing and begging for a hand—screaming at him just to hold on and enjoy the ride. Because while it's inevitable the crash will come, all those motivational quotes plastered across the internet assure him that life is about the journey, not the destination. He should just savor Steve's company while it lasts, and if he goes home at night and gives himself over to the fantasy, it can't hurt, right? It's not like anyone will ever know.

..If he can hold out that long.  
  
  


The sweeping motion on his arm is the first thing that registers in Bucky's mind, followed by the pain in his back from the too-firm mattress, and the realization his head isn't pounding anymore. But it's Steve's voice calling his name quietly that makes him open his eyes and jolt upright on the bed.

"Oh, shit!" His eyes roll a little in his head as he stretches them wide, blinking into consciousness. They're gritty, protesting the forgotten contacts as he looks down to discover the rubbing sensation on his arm is Steve's thumb moving over his skin.

"What happened to staying vertical?"

"I'm so sorry. I was just, uh, um... waiting, and then the bed looked really comfy, and I thought I'd just see if it was as soft as it looked, just for a minute, and then…" Bucky shrugs sheepishly.

"I bet you were disappointed. And I'm amazed you were able to fall asleep at all; this has got to be the hardest mattress on the planet."

"Yeah, it's not great. I think maybe last night took more out of me than I realized. I'm so sorry."

The warmth of Steve's hand lifts as he rises to his feet, but he keeps his eyes locked on Bucky. "Listen, Bucky—"

"Please don't fire me!" Bucky blurts. "I'm sorry, really! It'll never happen again, I promise. No more sleeping on the job—literally—or coming to work hungover. I know that I—"

Steve makes a soft hushing noise. "Buck, it's okay. I'm not firing you."

"You're _not?"_ Bucky can't keep the disbelief from his tone.

"No. A couple of us are going out for drinks. I was going to invite you to come along. I thought it would be nice to get to know each other outside of work, but I'll understand if after your big night last night you want to pass."

Drinks… _with Steve._

Bucky's first impulse is to go giddy with excitement, jump at the chance to spend more time with the subject of his infatuation. But a small voice whispers that no good can come of mixing work and pleasure...especially when alcohol is part of the recipe. He humiliates himself enough when his inhibitions are intact. But when will he get this chance again? How can he look this particular gift horse in its perfect mouth?

"Oh. No, that… uh, I'd like that. When are you—" Bucky looks to the front door of the trailer, only now noticing the brilliant sunlight from this morning is nowhere to be found. Glancing back to Steve, he takes in the dark red, long sleeve t-shirt strainging to wrap around miles of muscles and jeans—definitely an outfit from Steve Rogers' wardrobe, not Captain America's. "How long have I been asleep?"

"All day."

Bucky drops his hands to his head. _"Oh my god_. I'm so sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," Steve admonishes softly. "I could have woken you earlier, but truthfully, I didn't want to. You sleeping all day saved me from trying to come up with something for you to do. Besides, you looked like you needed it."

Bucky's head snaps back up. "Says the guy who's been here since before the sun was up. You could have sent me to water your houseplants or pick the yellow m&ms out of the packet, or… or… shine the outside of your trailer."

Steve's low, husky laugh pulls goosebumps from Bucky's skin. "I'll keep those in mind, though not the m&ms... yellow is my favorite. Come on," he starts walking toward the front end of the trailer. "Everyone else has already left. It took longer to wake you than I thought." At the door, he pauses again, watching as Bucky scrambles to his feet and runs his fingers through his hair, tugging the hair band free before retying the strands up in a hopefully less-messy knot.

"Oh, yeah, I sleep like the dead," Bucky mumbles, following Steve down the stairs. "Even on your hellish mattress."

Steve shortens his stride to allow Bucky to fall into step beside him. He navigates through the maze of trailers easily, guiding Bucky out through a path he'd not taken before, leading toward a large parking lot. "Yeah, you were so deep in Sleeping Beauty mode I thought I was going to have to pull a Prince Charming move to wake you up."

Bucky's steps falter as _that_ particular scenario plays out in technicolor inside his head—of being woken with Steve kissing him—and a hand slides under his elbow and steadies him.

_"Again?"_

"Didn't fall, doesn't count," Bucky counters quickly, thankful the darkness not only cools but hides his flaming cheeks.

Steve's snort comes a second before the unmistakable beep of a car unlocking drowns it out, and headlights flash bright directly in front of them. "Do you need to stop anywhere? Or need to call someone to let them know you'll be home late?"

Bucky shakes his head as Steve leads him around to the passenger side of the car. He doesn't know what kind it is—his expertise ends at knowing the difference between a car and a truck—but it's sleek and black with dark windows. Steve hesitates before reaching to open the door for him. Bucky can't meet Steve's gaze as he pushes out a 'thanks' and slides inside, busying himself with his seatbelt.

A moment later, Steve's beside him, securing his own belt. He starts the ignition before turning to face Bucky, his handsome face illuminated by the glowing blue lights from the dash. "Just let me know when you're ready to call it a night, or if you feel uncomfortable at any point. A few of the guys can get a little… rowdy."

Torn between bristling at the implication that he's a delicate little flower that needs protecting, and swooning at the thought that Steve _wants_ to protect him, Bucky settles for a sharp nod and small smile. "Yeah, of course, but I'm sure it's nothing I haven't seen before. Just because I'm an omega doesn't mean I haven't participated in more than my fair share of drunken revelry, you know," he says, trying to keep his voice light.

Apprehension settles in his gut at Steve's dark look, but then he's turning his attention to the windshield, and Bucky tries to convince himself he'd imagined it, just his still-tired eyes playing tricks on him.

As Steve guides the car out of the lot, Bucky hopes he's not making a huge mistake by ignoring that little voice. Embarrassing himself in front of Steve is one thing, but embarrassing Steve in front of his friends is something else entirely. Trying not to fidget in his seat, he watches the lights of the city blur past as Steve winds his way through the late-night traffic. Bucky sends up a little prayer that everything goes smoothly tonight. After the countless hours of entertainment his suffering has given the universe, surely that's not too much to ask.


	6. Fight or Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky moves the shirt under the dryer, reactivating the machine eleven times before it's closer to dry than wet. It's when he nudges the button for the twelfth time—and okay, he's just buying time at this point—that Steve strolls over to him. Or no; stroll implies a leisurely and easy-going walk. Steve stalks toward him like a predator closing in on prey, and Bucky's fight or flight instincts come down hard in the faint column; his heart fluttering so rapidly in his throat that the world darkens around the edges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. If you're not following me on tumblr then you've probably missed my little scheduling announcement. You can read it by clicking [here](https://thewaythatwerust.tumblr.com/post/632585333469511680) or TL:DR; from this point going forward we're operating in mystery update mode! There will be at least one update a week, but which words will be a mystery! (I know, just... go with it, okay? <3)
> 
> ii. Also if you ARE following me on tumblr and have zero self-control, you've probably read half of this chapter in sneak peek snippets (posted under spoiler cuts so it's your own fault) posted in response to my (I really shouldn't have done it) WIP game. 
> 
> iii. Reading a lot of what you guys were expecting (hoping?) would happen in this chapter, I'm not sure this is what you had in mind, but hopefully you like it nonetheless! <3

_"Fuck!"_ Bucky jumps back but it's too late, the cold liquid is already rushing down his chest and slipping past the waistband of his jeans.

Scott jerks the now almost-empty glasses away from where they've just collided with Bucky—all three of them—and spits out a curse of his own. "I'm so sorry, Bucky! I didn't see you."

"No, it's my fault," Bucky mutters darkly. "I was coming to see if you needed a hand, and now you need new drinks instead. I'll pay for them," he adds quickly, trying to work out if he has enough in his account to cover the extremely overpriced concoctions currently seeping into his underwear.

"No, it wasn't and you won't," Scott says cheerfully, spinning back to the bar and placing the glasses on it. He catches the bartender's eye and signals to the drinks before turning back to Bucky. "I'm more worried about your shirt. Fuck, is that vintage? I ruined it."

"Don't worry about it." Bucky doesn't want to make Scott feel worse by admitting it is, not when this entire situation is his own fault. Of course a night without his human disaster switch activated had been too much to ask for.

"Look, why don't you head into the bathroom, see if you can rinse it out before the stain sets. I have some clothes in my car. As soon as I deliver this round, I'll go and grab you a clean shirt."

"Oh, no, you don't have to—"

"It's the least I can do. Us guys have to stick together," Scott winks.

Bucky risks a glance back over his shoulder, and yep, Sharon is still clinging to Steve like some kind of obnoxious creeping weed—the _real_ reason he'd fled from the table. Though he'd muttered an excuse about helping Scott, his motivations had been purely selfish, and this is obviously the universe taking him to task. Still, he relishes the chance to hide out in the bathroom for a while with an actual excuse. "Okay, yeah, I might. Thanks," Bucky says with a nod before turning and making a beeline for the bathroom.

He shouldn't have come here tonight. He should have told Steve he had a headache or a pet emergency… except then he'd be screwed if Steve wanted to know about the non-existent pet. Maybe a houseplant emergency? Ficuses are known to be extremely temperamental, aren't they?

Bucky shoulders open the bathroom door, plastering himself against it to allow a rotund beta to exit before he steps inside.  
  
All in all, he should be grateful; it could have easily been worse—much, _much_ worse—but somehow he'd managed to get through almost two hours without making an ass of himself. The accomplishment had come at the cost of only very occasionally opening his mouth to join the conversation or take a swig of his beer, but limiting himself to one an hour was a strategic move, drinking enough to be sociable, but not enough to start dancing on tabletops while serenading Steve with a rousing rendition of _You Belong With Me_. And though he's sure Steve's friends think he is a dull little wallflower, Steve—when his attention hadn't been occupied by Sharon's incessant flirting that had only increased with her drink tally—hasn't seemed to notice his less than exuberant behavior, or, oh, maybe Steve thinks he's a boring killjoy, too. In any event, the likelihood of him being asked out to any further group gatherings are about the same as Steve sweeping him off his feet and into bed, or standing outside his apartment holding a stereo over his head.  
  
With a resigned sigh, Bucky takes in his reflection in the large mirror running the length of all three sinks. Scott's right; his shirt's ruined. The Queen shirt that had been one of his father's prized possessions now looks like he's been attacked by PETA—bright red stains bleeding into the white grotesquely. He's not sure if the lesson in this is to just say no to after-work parties or to wear more suitable attire to work in the first place.

He grabs the back of the neckband and tugs the shirt over his head before dropping it into the sink. Immensely grateful that the faucet is just a plain metal lever style—and not one requiring a hygiene macarena under a hidden sensor to activate—he lets the water run freely, watching it turn a pretty shade of pink as it meets his shirt.

Whatever had been in the glasses wasn't only cold but sugary, and he is feeling all kinds of gross right now. After grabbing a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, he soaks them under the stream rushing from the tap, then starts rubbing the stickiness off his skin—moving from his chest and down his belly before pausing where the trail disappears into his pants.

He tosses the paper into the bin, then checks the three stalls to make sure they are as vacant as their swivel signs declare them to be. With a sigh of relief, he makes his way back to the sink, grabs more towels, and wets them before turning off the faucet. He unfastens his jeans, shucks them down to his knees, then pulls the white waistband of his black boxer briefs forward. The water is freezing against his warm skin, and he hisses as the sodden towels send rivulets running over sensitive places as he scrubs at the sparse but matted mess of dark hair. He moves quickly, groaning as his traitorous dick decides it likes the attention.

"Bucky? Are you—"

Bucky's hand freezes, and his head snaps up to find Steve stopped dead in the doorway. He knows exactly what this looks like—half-naked, hand down his pants, groaning—and his whole body flushes hot.

Steve recovers first, stepping into the bathroom and pushing the door closed, planting himself on the inside like a human barricade. His gaze drops low, following Bucky's arm down to where it disappears into his briefs, then lower, to his bunched jeans cutting into his thighs before returning to his face. He clears his throat. "Scott asked me to bring you this." Dark fabric dangles from his now outstretched hand.

"Uhh, thanks," Bucky says, still frozen in place like some kind of human art installation. He jerks his hand free from his underwear and holds the make-shift washcloth aloft as if it explains everything. "It was sticky." And fuck, that makes it sound like he's just been in here making and cleaning a _different_ kind of mess. He tosses the paper towel into the bin and then grabs for his jeans, tugging them up and carefully zipping over the flesh starting to swell beneath.

Only when Bucky has fastened his jeans button does Steve step forward, away from the door, and hold out the shirt to him. Bucky takes it and pulls it on quickly, gasping as it sweeps over his pebbled nipples, and yanking it harder when it catches on his bun, ignoring the loose tendrils that come loose with it. It's a little big, hanging down to his thighs, but he's grateful—anything is better than walking back out into a bar half-naked or worse, with a drenched shirt clinging to him as if he's stumbled in from the rain like the lead in a romantic comedy, about to make a grand declaration of love.

Steve, to this point watching the unfurling of the shirt with keen interest, bites off a strangled groan and averts his eyes. Bucky spins toward the mirror. His mouth drops open at the image of Steve, emblazoned across his own chest, pointing toward the glass. The reflection reverses the words, but he can make out the large block letters easily: _Captain America Wants You!_

_"Fuck."_ Bucky squeezes his eyes shut.

"Scott has a very particular sense of humor," Steve says dryly, meeting Bucky's eyes in the glass when they open again.

"And here I thought he liked me," Bucky groans.

"He does. No doubt he thought you'd get a kick out of it."

Bucky turns back to Steve. "On a one-to-ten scale, how much shit am I going to get when I go out there wearing this?"

Steve shakes his head, lips pulling up in a wry smile. "You? A solid six. Me, on the other hand, probably a nine. But after a few more shots they'll either get over it or lose the ability to tease."

"Great," Bucky sighs. "Thank you for the shirt. I'll, uh, be out in a minute." He pumps the soap dispenser on the wall twice, filling his palm with pink gel. He spreads it over the stain on his shirt in the sink and starts to rub the fabric against itself, happy to have something other than Steve to focus on.

"Trying to get rid of me?" Steve asks casually.

_Yes!,_ Bucky's brain screams, but he shakes his head. He can feel Steve's eyes on him, but he keeps his own on his task. "Uh, no. I just don't want you to miss out on…" _Sharon trying to eat your face again._ He shrug on shoulder carefully. "Whatever is happening out there."

"I don't mind. I'd feel better waiting, knowing you weren't in here drowning in the sink or giving yourself third-degree burns with the hand dryer."

Bucky grins despite himself as he uses a bubble-laden hand to turn on the faucet again to rinse the soap from his shirt. "As a rule of thumb, I don't think it's possible to drown yourself in a sink."

"Something tells me you're the exception to every rule."

A tremor shivers down Bucky's spine at the dark gravel masquerading as a voice, making him want... god, he just _wants_. Shame blazes over his skin. He'd seen Sharon kissing Steve not ten minutes before he’d fled to the bathroom, and yet he’s here, practically vibrating with the desire to claim the devil’s sloppy seconds. What the hell is wrong with him? He’s never, _ever_ looked twice at a taken guy before, but now… now he can’t look away. His hands convulse reflexively, digging into the wet cotton beneath his fingers. "Ha, ha," he deadpans finally, voice hoarse.

He can feel Steve's gaze on him as he turns off the tap and wrings the water from his shirt, and then three steps bring him tantalizingly close to the alpha. The hand dryer affixed to the wall roars to life with a well-aimed jab from his elbow, and he holds his shirt out under the flow of hot air. He's thankful for the rush of noise filling the small room, drowning out the thumping of blood in his ears as well as killing the chance for Steve to say anything else.

He moves the shirt under the dryer, reactivating the machine eleven times before it’s closer to dry than wet. It’s only when he nudges the button for the twelfth time—and okay, he’s just buying time at this point—that Steve strolls over to him. Or no, stroll implies a leisurely and easy-going walk; Steve _stalks_ toward him like a predator closing in on prey, and Bucky’s fight or flight instincts come down hard in the _faint_ column—his heart fluttering so rapidly in his throat that the world darkens around the edges.  
  
Steve stops close enough to bend and kiss him—if he were into that sort of thing—and Bucky can feel his physical reaction to that thought play out in slow motion: his legs going soft, turning molten, melting under the heat Steve stirs in him. His world shifts as he pitches forward, his cheek colliding with Steve’s very broad, very hard, absolutely fucking perfect chest. Large hands come up and grab his upper arms, steadying him but not pushing him away.  
  
“Are you alright?”  
  
If Bucky were prey, this is the part where Steve would devour him. And he’d deserve it for offering himself up on a silver platter like an idiot—literally _falling_ for the alpha. But as much as he would kill to be devoured by that mouth, the only thing dying tonight is his dignity, cause of death: unavoidable rejection.  
  
“I’m, yeah. I’m leaning on you,” Bucky offers stupidly.  
  
“Yeah, you are,” Steve agrees huskily, still making no effort to move.  
  
Bucky sucks in a shaky breath, his lungs filling with the calming scent of Steve. “You, uh, st-still smell like vanilla,” he manages weakly. He wants to blame his sudden lightheadedness on the alcohol, but two beers in two hours aren’t enough to knock him off-balance—but _Steve_ is.  
  
“Should I not?”  
  
Something sharper and slightly smokey rises from Steve’s skin, fighting the sweet artificial fragrance. It’s familiar, spicy, but then it’s gone, the chemicals working to neutralize the natural pheromones before Bucky can put a name to it. “Oh, no... I just thought you’d, um, you know, smell like alcohol.”  
  
“I’m not drinking tonight.”  
  
Bucky frowns at the comment, running back through the night, realizing though Steve had carried drinks over to the table, he hadn’t actually had any himself. “Why not?”  
  
Steve’s fingers press deeper into Bucky’s arms. “Need to be sober when I take you home.”

The promise in the words, in the tone, make Bucky's nerves misfire, all sparking off at once. The garbled noise that slips from his throat is punctuated by the swell of loud voices rushing through the now open bathroom door, but he can't tear his eyes away from Steve to see who belongs to the heavy footsteps stumbling toward them.

But Steve doesn't have that problem at all; he takes a step away immediately, letting his hands drop to his side. Bucky reels, as much from the loss of contact as the abrupt shift in mood, and he flings an arm out to steady himself against the dryer. He can't stop the blush from stinging his cheeks; temptation has made a fool of him. Again.

"Rogers? Man, everyone's wonderin' where you been hidin'!"

Bucky recognizes the man from earlier introductions—Peter Quill, the film's director, though he's looking a lot worse for wear now.

"Not hiding; I was helping Bucky; Lang spilled the last round on him."

"I kind of spilled it on myself, actually," Bucky mutters.

"Right, right," Quill nods before turning bleary eyes on Steve. "Who the hell's Bucky?"

Steve nods to Bucky. "My new PA. I introduced you to him earlier, remember?"

"Uh-huh, yeah." Quill turns to Bucky. "Nice to meetcha," he grins. But then his eyes narrow, and he leans close. "You're a 'mega?"

"Yeah, I am," Bucky says evenly, bracing himself. He knows what's coming, and the fact it's about to come from his boss's boss means he has no choice but to swallow it down like a good boy and keep all his choice retorts under his tongue. Still, he can't stop from notching his chin higher, refusing to let the beta claim dominance over him without at least a little fight.

The confirmation seems to shock some sobriety into Quill, but he doesn't say anything to Bucky, instead, his head whips toward Steve. "You can't hav'a male omega 'sisstant, Rogers. Fuck, man. The whole point o'this was—"

"Don't worry about it, Quill," Steve rumbles, placing a hand on the director's back and guiding him toward the middle stall. "Everything is fine. We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"They're gonna have a field day with this, y'know," Quill mutters, shaking his head as he pushes into the cubicle.

Bucky stares at Steve, curiosity nibbling at his brain as he gnaws at his lip. He wants to ask what the hell that was about, but he can't… can he? It's about _him_ , obviously, and yet, Steve seemed to go out of his way to make sure Bucky hadn't heard whatever Quill was about to say. He waits, hoping against hope that Steve will explain without prompting, but without a word, the alpha moves to the door and holds it open.  
  
"We should head back out."

He shouldn't be surprised; it's par for the course at this point. On wobbly legs, with a belly full of stones, Bucky steps past Steve, leaving a careful cushion of space between them, keeping both hands twisted in his almost dry shirt.

It's Tony who spies him first, his delighted, drunken crowing rising above all other noise in the room. "Oh, god," he pants when his guffawing dies down, "S'that you claiming your property, Rogers, or are you jus' using him as a human billboard now?"

"You're just jealous you didn't think of it first," Bucky retorts quickly, cheeks burning at Tony's comment, and not wanting to hear Steve's answer. "I bet you'd love to spend all day, every day, staring at your own face."  
  
The loud laugh rumbling from Steve's chest makes Bucky preen. He's not sure whether it was his words or Tony's shocked expression that had triggered the joyous outburst, but he counts it a win, regardless.

"Ha! Knew there's a reason I liked you." Tony winks before draining his half-full glass. He smacks his lips loudly, then leers at Bucky. "You got a helluva mouth on you. Betcha I could find a better use for it than talkin' shit."

"You better watch your own, Stark," Steve growls, stepping closer to Bucky as if trying to bodily shield him from Tony's verbal advances.  
  
"I'm just playin', big boy. Relax." Tony holds his hands up, palm out, toward Steve. "Wouldn't dream o'touchin' your toys without p'mission."  
  
And, _oh._ The shirt almost slips from Bucky's fingers but he snags it before it falls to the floor and places it on the table, staring at it hard enough to burn a hole in without seeing it at all.

"Oh, honey, leave him be. Let him have his fun," Sharon chides. The sweet tone draws Bucky's focus just as she moves to plaster herself against Steve's chest, wrapping her arms around him like a needy octopus. She glances at Scott's shirt hanging from Bucky's frame and rolls her eyes. "I'm tired," she pouts. "How much longer do we have to stay?"

"Jus' long 'nuff for Scotty boy to rope you into truth or dare," Tony snorts, flinging his arm around Scott's shoulders. "Only way he ever sees any action, s'darin' people to do it," he slurs, dragging his s's.

"Oh, no, m'out then," Quill mumbles, coming up behind Bucky, a pained expression pinching his face. "The las' time I played with Tony, he made me, umm, put hot sauce where it jus' don't belong."

"I must call it a night too, I'm afraid," the tall, muscular blond beside Quill adds. Steve had introduced Bucky to the hulking alpha earlier, but in his storm of anxiety, he'd forgotten the guy's name almost immediately. The alpha is funny if slightly strange, and has something to do with the lighting on set. And unlike the other guests, though he'd drunk at least half his weight in beer—which is a hell of a lot; the guy is built like a Greek god, bigger even than Steve—it seemed to have little effect on him, just made his cheeks redder and his laugh louder. Bucky liked him a lot. "I'll see to it this one gets home alright," he adds, curving a massive arm around Quill's shoulders and moving him toward the exit, ignoring Peter's spluttering protests.

"You're no fun," Scott calls after them. "What about you guys? You'll stay, right? You can't leave me alone with Tony." He wrinkles his nose and turns pleading eyes on Bucky. "Just one more round?"

"I'd rather just go homeeee," Sharon whines, wrapping her arms around Steve's neck and tugging him down at the same time she presses up on her toes. "I'll make it worth your while," she mock-whispers loud enough for the entire table to overhear before pressing her lips to Steve's.

Bucky looks away as his stomach churns—jealousy and a belly full of beer are not good bedfellows. The warm lights wink off the rim of the full shot glass in front of Tony, and Bucky grabs it without thinking, presses it to his lips, and swallows the contents down quickly. He coughs harshly, the burn of his throat making his eyes water. Fucking tequila. He's going to be feeling that in about five minutes and then revisiting it within the hour. Shit. He really should have just gone home.

"Hey! That was mine!" Tony grabs the empty shot glass out of Bucky's hand and slams it down in front of him.

"Sorry, sorry," Bucky mutters. "I'll get you another. Scott, you want?"

"Yeah, might as well have one for the road," Scott says happily, clearly pleased his desire to stay had panned out, regardless of the means.

"Steve? Can we go?" The syrupy-sweetness of Sharon's voice has been replaced with ice. Bucky risks a peek to find her standing, arms crossed over her chest, a scowl pressing creases between her perfectly-plucked brows.

"I can grab you a cab if you want to leave now, Shar, or I can take you home after the next round."

_"Fine,"_ Sharon snaps. "Then I want tequila, too," she adds churlishly, glaring daggers at Bucky.

With a nod and a mental 'fuck you,' Bucky spins and strides away from the table, maneuvering between the many human obstacles separating him and the bar. He slips into a free space and lifts his hand, trying to catch the bartender's attention, but following the night's general theme, he goes unnoticed.

He tenses when an arm slides around his neck, the heavy weight of it settling on his shoulders as a warm body slots tightly against his. The man beside him bends, his face coming close enough that Bucky can feel the hot breath blow over his ear.

"Hey, gorgeous. Can I buy you a drink?"

The anxiety coiling his body breaks at the familiar voice, and he sags against the hard body beside him. "Only if you keep them coming."

"That can be arranged," Clint chuckles before straightening, not lifting the arm from Bucky's shoulders. He gestures to the guy behind the bar, who, of course, comes over immediately. "Two tequilas, my man, please and thank you."

"Actually, make that five," Bucky corrects.

"Wow, you weren't kidding, were you?" Clint whistles. "You have some kind of day, Barnes? What are you doing here, anyway?"

"They're not all for me, and I think the better question is what are _you_ doing here? Aren't you still meant to be in Greece?"

"Finished last night…yesterday…tomorrow? I don't know; time zones are crazy. But we finished, and I'm home."

"Clearly," Bucky says dryly." Thanks for the head's up."

"Oh, don't be like that, B. I was going to call you. Tonight, actually."

The bartender places the glasses in front of Clint and takes the cash from his outstretched hand.

"Oh, can I fix you up for those later?"

"Don't worry about it," Clint says easily. "So, tell me about your day, honey," he drawls sarcastically. "Why do you need to drown your liver along with your sorrows?"

"Bucky? Is everything alright?" Bucky startles at Steve's voice directly behind him and twists to find eyes narrowed and that perfect jaw clenched tight. "Is this guy bothering you?"

"Oh, uh, yeah, I mean no, I'm—it's all good. Sorry, This is, um…" Bucky's brain flatlines, losing the ability to recall any name but _Steve_ , and holy shit, this is mortifying. Clint is never going to let him live it down. "Uh, my… friend," he supplies haltingly.

"Are you going to introduce me to your _friend?”_

"His friend can introduce himself," Clint smiles, reaching his free hand up above where his other arm is still slung around Bucky's shoulders. "I'm Clint. And you are?"

Steve stares at the offered hand for a beat too long before taking it and introducing himself, first name only.

Bucky can see the muscles in Steve's arm tighten, swelling under skin glowing golden in the incandescent lighting, and he winces sympathetically, knowing Clint's hand must feel like it's in a vise. But no pain shows on his friend's face—though there is the flickering of a challenge in his eyes and the ghost of a smirk on his lips, and damn it, this is not going to end well.

"Steve's my boss," Bucky says quickly, needing to fill the silence as the two alphas size each other up. "That's why I'm here, it's a, uh, after-work drinks thing." He breathes a sigh of relief when their hands finally unlock.

"You got the job? B, that's amazing! Congrats!" Clint ruffles Bucky's hair with his now-free hand, his wiggling fingers pulling long strands free from their elastic prison holding them in a loose bun at the back of his head. "You should have told me." Clint laughs as Bucky grumbles and pushes his hand away.

"I _did_ tell you," Bucky replies evenly, pulling the band from his hair, letting the locks tumble to his shoulders. He dreads to think what he looks like, but he can't excuse himself and disappear to the bathroom now without looking like a vain asshole. And it doesn't matter anyway. Even objectively, he's the least attractive one in this trio by a long shot. He runs his hands through the mess, tucking the front-most strands behind his ears. "It's your own fault if you don't check your messages."

Audible even from the bar, Tony shouts Steve's name, and Bucky cranes his neck to find the three figures at the table staring in their direction.

"We really should get that last round to them," Steve says, voice tauter than a bowstring. "Bucky?"

Clint gapes at him. "What? Last round? It's not even midnight!"

"Some of us have early starts in the morning," Steve replies, stepping past Clint to thread his fingers around three shot glasses. He looks at the fourth before looking back up to Bucky. "But we can stay for a while longer if you wanted another round," he says finally.  
  
"Oh, no, you don't have to… I know Sharon wants to go home." Bucky tries not to let the sour taste of the words show on his face.  
  
"I brought you here, I'm going to make sure you get home safely."

"It's okay; I've got him. We can share a cab." Clint up ends his shot before slamming the glass back onto the bar. "I'm staying at his place tonight anyway."

"You are?" Steve and Bucky ask at the same time.

"Wow, that was impressive. Surround sound, neat trick," Clint laughs before turning beseeching eyes on Bucky. "Yeah, I need a place to crash for a few days. I scheduled renovations for while I was gone thinking I'd be back next week, so…" He shrugs. "I'd be homeless if it weren't for my perfect, generous, gorgeous omega who always has a warm bed waiting for me when I'm in need." He flutters his eyelashes and Bucky can't help but giggle at his friend's antics, the tequila in his system suddenly making him feel warm and a little floaty, lifting him above the anxieties that have been gnawing at him relentlessly all night.

"Oh." Steve's eyes dart from Bucky to Clint and back again, finally coming to rest on the arm draped over Bucky's shoulders, his brow furrowing before he nods as if to himself, then clears his throat. "Right. Of course. Clint, it was nice to meet you. Bucky… you're sure you don't need a ride?"

Bucky doesn't need one, but god, he wants one… just not the kind Steve's offering. But what he _doesn't_ want is to watch Sharon fawning all over Steve on the way home, or witness any subsequent public displays of affection that happen on her doorstep. He doesn't want to be alone in the car with the alpha of his dreams, and he really _really_ doesn't want to humiliate himself by begging Steve to come inside… his apartment and then _him._

Fate has gifted him a very unexpected, very Clint-shaped cockblock, and Bucky is going to be smart for once in his life and take the hint.

"Uhh, no. I'm okay, but thank you."

Steve nods sharply. "I'll see you at work tomorrow."

"Yeah, I'll—" Bucky starts, but Steve has already turned away.

Clint waits until Steve is out of earshot before he hisses. " _Seriously,_ B? _That's_ your new boss?"

Bucky groans. "Yeah."

"Your new boss is _Steve fucking Rogers?"_

"Uh-huh."

Clint lifts the last remaining shot and presses it into Bucky's hand before signaling to the bartender for another round. "I've missed out on a lot, huh?"

Bucky downs the liquid, face pinching as it burns down his throat. "You have no idea."

"Not yet, but I'm about to. Start from the beginning and tell me _everything."_


	7. Going Incognito for Dummies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes a minute for his brain to process the sight in front of him: a tortured white shirt—at least two sizes too small—is stretched across Steve's chest, a stark contrast to the dark, loose jeans hanging from his hips. The cap pulled low over his head and oversized sunglasses complete the Going Incognito For Dummies starter pack, and it should look ridiculous, but Steve manages to pull it off in a way that makes Bucky so fucking thirsty he wishes he had some of that overpriced tapwater close at hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Just a head's up for my fellow arachnophobes: there's a brief mention of spiders in this one, though none make an appearance.
> 
> ii. ..I think those of you with secondhand awkwardness issues will do okay in this one. Pretty sure. ~~99%~~ 87% sure. :)

Bucky's fingers are aching, knuckles blooming white around the phone crushed in his hand. It takes a concentrated effort to relax his grip and drag his eyes away from the screen long enough to watch the blood seep back around the joints. His distraction doesn't hold though, and his gaze snaps back to the screen as if even Steve's words have a magnetic pull over him. He reads the message again and rereads it, and then reads it again as if somehow he can find the answers to the questions hurricaning inside his mind, as if he had just missed them the first three dozen times he'd read it. He comes up empty, of course, but it doesn't stop his eyes sweeping over the letters until they start to jumble together and stop making sense at all.

_< Grabbing a late lunch at FireHouse. Hungry? 3pm. >  
_

The text itself is innocuous, just like the dozen others Steve has sent him, but this is the only _personal_ message he's received all week—the past week in which he hasn't seen Steve at all.

Not once since the disaster at the bar.

The hangover he'd woken up with the morning after was one for the books, so when the text from Steve telling him to take the day off had come through, he'd felt too much like death warmed over to protest. Instead, he'd spent the day curled up on his favorite single-seater, head tucked low, trading pained groans with Clint and resolving to never, ever touch Tequila again.

He'd been half-way to the set the following day when two new texts had arrived in quick succession— _'no need to come to set today'_ , and a list of jobs for him to complete. The rest of the week had followed suit. There was never anything but the tasks: small things like picking up dry cleaning or dropping it off, doing a grocery or beer run and restocking the fridge, and picking up a gift Steve had ordered for a friend. Collecting fan mail from Sam's office and opening and sorting it took the most time and was by far his least favorite activity of the week, and the time spent with Winter—the dog that had nearly given him a heart attack on his first visit—was far and away the best. He had spent more time than strictly necessary feeding, walking, and bathing her, and playing with her, too—even if _that_ wasn't on the to-do list. But there had been nothing else needing his attention and he enjoyed the company—the german shepherd is much cuter and better behaved than his own house guest. And, though he didn't want to admit it—to himself or anyone else—he liked being in Steve's home; it smoothed the sharp edges from the strange emptiness inside him… the emptiness that had only spread and darkened with each new day without Steve.

It's stupid, he knows, to long to see the alpha again, to miss his _boss_. He'd laugh at how pathetic he was if only his chest didn't ache and his stomach wasn't in knots.

He'd tried to distract himself—with his tasks, with detailed post-mortems of That Night with Clint, with placing bets on which day the 'I'm sorry but your services are no longer required' text will come through—but none of them helped shake the feeling that he's being punished… though for _what_ he doesn't know. It has to have something to do with the bar, the timing is too coincidental not to. The perceived snub at the end of the night is the most obvious answer, but his gut had rejected that possibility immediately. Steve wouldn't do that, Bucky is sure of it… he doesn't know _how_ he knows, he just does. Still, rejecting one possibility out of a thousand doesn't get him any closer to understanding why the hell he's been kept purposefully at arm's length.

Well, until now.

Now, it's eighteen minutes past three, and he's sitting at a table where he's pretty sure he can't even afford the tap water, looking like he should be in the kitchen washing dishes instead of perched on the most uncomfortable seat known to mankind, waiting for a movie star to waltz through the door and sit down opposite him.

A bubble of hysterical laughter itches up his throat, but he presses his lips together, tears his eyes away from his phone and shoves it roughly back into the pocket of his jeans… and waits. Or, keeps waiting, really; he's been waiting for almost half an hour already. Two minutes. Bucky's going to give Steve two more minutes to walk through the door before he flees out of it with his tail between his legs and pretend he never showed up in the first place.

He runs his thumb over the curved edge of the black-stained wooden tabletop and looks around the restaurant, trying to divert his attention from the anxiety jumping through his body like a severed live wire. The hipster vibe is not exactly what he'd expected Steve to gravitate toward, but there's no other way to describe the upscale burger joint trying to look anything but. The plants forming a canopy above his head, hanging from the raw, uncovered beams are enough to put this place on Bucky's _never going to revisit_ list. At best, they're fake plants, and any food served will be garnished with a sprinkling of dust. At worst, they're real plants, and there'll be insects dropping down instead. The thought stirs visions of spiders dangling above his head, and he cranes his neck back, sending his gaze skyward, needing to assuage his overactive imagination that an eight-legged murder bug isn't about to land in his hair or skitter down his neck.

"Looking for something in particular?" Steve's amused voice makes Bucky snap his head back down so fast his neck cracks.

It takes a minute for his brain to process the sight in front of him: a tortured white shirt—at least two sizes too small—is stretched across Steve's chest, a stark contrast to the dark, loose jeans hanging from his hips. The cap pulled low over his head and oversized sunglasses complete the Going Incognito For Dummies starter pack, and it should look ridiculous, but Steve manages to pull it off in a way that makes Bucky so fucking thirsty he wishes he had some of that overpriced tapwater close at hand.

"Oh, umm, no. Just… spiders."

Steve lowers himself onto the chair opposite Bucky, draping his arms over the table between them. "You like spiders?"

Bucky's eyes widen in horror. _“Nobody_ likes spiders.”

With Steve's eyes hidden behind the sunglasses, Bucky finds himself staring at those gorgeous lips instead, watching them tip up into a bemused smile. "Then why are you trying to find them?"

"To make sure they're not looking to stow away in my hair."

Steve chuckles softly. "You really can't blame them if they are, it's very lovely hair." He removes his glasses and places them on the table. "I'm sorry—"

"Did I—" Bucky starts at the same time.

"You first."

Bucky shakes his head at Steve's gesture to continue. "No, I need you—uh, I mean, mine can wait." He tries to fight back the heat rushing to his cheeks as the curve of Steve's lips deepens. He digs his fingers into his thighs, wishing he wasn't so fucking predictable.

"I was just going to apologize for being late and thank you for coming."

"Oh." Bucky isn't sure what he was expecting, but it was a little more than that. "Well, it came through on the work phone, so I had no choice, right?" He tries to float the words nice and light but they have the buoyancy of a lead balloon and they crash at his feet.

And just like that, Steve's smile is gone. "Is that really why you came? You thought it was an order?"

Bucky winces. "I…no. Sorry, that was… dumb."

"Then why did you come?"

Well, shit. There isn't space enough on these stupid black tabletops to unpack _that._ "Why did you want to see me?" Bucky asks instead.

Steve leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. A thick index finger scratches over a bulging and beautiful bicep for too many of Bucky's rapid heartbeats. "I had to see you," he says finally.

"Why? Did you forget what I looked like?" Bucky sasses before capturing his lip between his teeth, wanting a physical barrier to keep any other unfiltered words from following their kin out of his stupid mouth.

Something dark glitters in Steve's eyes, but it disappears before Bucky can decipher it. For a fleeting, dizzying moment, he's sure that Steve is about to haul him over the table and spank him for his insolence. He squirms on the chair, slides a hand from his thigh to his groin, and, as discreetly as he's able, shoves the heel of his hand to his dick. As tempted as he is to test the theory—let his tongue drag him into full ungrateful brat territory—he gives an apologetic shake of his head instead. Whatever else he wishes Steve to be, he needs to remember the alpha is his _boss,_ and he needs to act accordingly if he wants to keep it that way.

"Sorry. That was—I just…" His words fail him, and the bouncing of his foot keeping the steady beat of his anxiety progresses up to his knee, and then his whole leg is shaking, like all the questions he's trapped inside are trying desperately to claw their way out of his body.

A waitress appears at the table like a magic trick—or maybe Bucky had just missed her approach, too wrapped up in Steve to notice anything or anyone else. No spark of recognition lights her face as she addresses Steve, introduces herself as Hope, and asks for their order. Bucky can't tell if she hates her job or is just bored, but with waitstaff being one of his very many _previous experiences_ on his resume, he knows either option is valid.

"Have you had a chance to look at the menu?" Steve asks Bucky.

"Oh, no, I'm good. I'm not really hungry," Bucky says just as his stomach rumbles. He resolutely ignores it, forcing a smile onto his face. It's not a total lie; though he hasn't eaten since breakfast, sitting opposite Steve has his belly churning so much he doesn't think he could actually get— _or keep_ —anything down. But the real truth is, he doesn't want to admit he'd used most of his available bank balance getting an Uber to the restaurant, not willing to take public transport and risk missing Steve. Until his paycheck hits his account, he doubts he could even afford the chalk used to make the overly illustrative menu affixed to the wall. But Steve came here for lunch, and Bucky will be damned if he's going to make him feel bad about eating in front of him.

Steve gives him an assessing look. "Two Originals with bacon, fries and salad on the side, and a couple of cokes. Thanks, Hope."

"You got it." Hope drawls, scribbling on her docket as she heads back to the counter.

The easy smile on Steve's lips slips as he takes in the frown on Bucky's. "Ah, shit. You're not a vegetarian, are you? I can change the order.…"

"No, I like meat." Bucky cringes. "I mean, I'm not—that's not…" He stares at Steve, cognitive dissonance tearing him in two. It is sweet and generous of Steve to want to feed him, but irritating and insulting that he'd done so against Bucky's express comment to the contrary. And the fact Steve wanted to see him today makes him giddy in ways he knows it shouldn't, but it's tarnished by the fact Steve hadn't wanted to see him for the six days before, and is now acting like they hadn't even happened. "Did I do something wrong?" Bucky blurts, unable to stop himself. "At the bar? Did I upset you, or, um, did I embarrass you?"

Apparently caught off-guard by the abrupt subject change, Steve visibly resets. "No. Why would you think that?"

"Then, what was it? Was it Sharon? Or, oh, Quill? He was adamant you couldn't have me as an assist— _oh_." Bucky swallows hard around the pounding in his throat. "Did you ask me here to fire me? Do it in public so I wouldn't make a scene?"

Steve pitches forward in his chair. "No, it's nothing like that. You need to stop worrying about me firing you. It's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"I do," Steve murmurs. "Look, what say we make a deal? No matter what happens, you have guaranteed employment for the next three months if you want it. I'll even have Sam draw up a new contract. Will that help?"

"You can't know that you'll want me around for the next three months," Bucky argues weakly, not wanting to admit that, yeah, knowing he has a job and financial security for the next twelve weeks is great, but it's the knowledge that he gets to keep seeing Steve that really starts to unravel the tension in his gut.

"I know what I want." Steve's low-pitched words are just loud enough to reach Bucky's ear. "Do _you?"_

"I, uh—" Bucky licks his lips nervously. Steve just can't ask that, _like that_ , while he's sitting across the table looking more delicious than anything on the menu. But he nods, because, _fuck yes_ , he knows what he wants. Or _who,_ at least. "Uh-huh."

"Two Originals, salad and fries," Hope says, appearing out of nowhere again—and Jesus, Bucky needs to start paying attention to his surroundings. Someone could rob the place and the only witness statement he'll be able to give is a detailed description of the light green flecks that play hide and seek in those ocean eyes. Steve leans back, allowing Hope space to set down the plates holding the biggest cheeseburgers Bucky has ever seen. "I'll be right back with your drinks."

He fiddles with the end of his fork, running his finger over the sleek silver line on the black napkin as he watches Steve watch him, both of them waiting for Hope to deliver the last of their order and leave again.

"If you really aren't hungry, you don't have to eat. But these are the best burgers in the city. Guaranteed to fill you up."

And, okay, now Bucky's about to start drooling, and it has little to do with the food. "Thanks. It looks good," he says, eyes still locked on Steve. It's only when the alpha breaks the connection and looks down to his plate that Bucky's brain comes back online and he realizes he never got his answer. "So, um, if you weren't avoiding me because I messed up, then why…?" He's expecting a rebuttal, a head shake, and an _'I wasn't avoiding you,'_ but instead, Steve just lifts two fries and pushes them into his mouth—and fuck, why is that so sexy?—and starts chewing slowly. Bucky gets the impression Steve's buying time, and familiar apprehension starts to tighten his chest again. It must be bad if Steve's delaying the news. "I mean, you can tell me if I _did_ mess up, you know, even if it wasn't a fireable level offense. I won't get upset, I promise. I'd rather know so I can do better next time." If there _is_ a next time.

Though it's probably no more than a minute, the time it takes Steve to swallow and take a drink of his coke from the ridiculous red and white straw sticking out of the mason jar-cum-drinking glass feels like an hour. "You didn't mess up; you've been great. You're perfect," Steve murmurs before clearing his throat. "But I realized that inviting you out for drinks was an error of judgment on my part. I think it best we keep our relationship strictly professional from here on out."

Bucky's heart drops to his feet. Steve's words are not unkind, but there's no way he'd be saying them if something hadn't happened at the bar to make him feel this way, and knowing he felt he couldn't share those reasons made something deep inside Bucky twist painfully. But a professional relationship is what he'd been hired for, after all. He shouldn't be upset about that. Except… "So, you asked me to come to lunch to tell me that we can only see each other at work?" He tries not to sound as confused as he feels.

Steve picks at the fries on his plate distractedly for a moment before answering. "This is a working lunch," he says finally. The smile that flashes over his lips does nothing to counteract the strain in his voice. "We have the bonding to attend soon; I thought it best to be on the same page before then."

"Right. Sure. Makes sense." Bucky hopes Steve can't hear the utter desolation in his voice. "Does that…does that mean the text messages, I mean, is that how I'll work from now on?" He drops his gaze to his plate, tearing at the fancy lettuce leaf acting as a cup for his side salad on the giant platter. "I won't, um…I won't see y—uh, won't be coming to set anymore?"

Steve's brow furrows. "Did you like… coming to set? It didn't make you… uncomfortable?"

Steve's hesitation is enough to give Bucky pause, and he runs the questions through his mind three times. They look safe enough on the surface, but he's not entirely sure there isn't a pit of spikes hidden beneath. "Yes and no."

"You're not sure?"

"Oh, no, I mean, yes, I liked coming to see—to set, and no, I wasn't uncomfortable."

"And Clint?" Steve prompts.

Bucky knows he's missing something… again. He cocks his head and tries to find a corner piece of the conversation to get his bearings. "What about Clint?"

“You coming to set didn’t make _him_ uncomfortable?”

"I—what? Why would Clint care?"

Steve's pinched brows dart up toward his hairline. "Why _wouldn't_ he? A lot of alphas are overprotective of where their omegas spend their time, especially when that time is with a bunch of other alphas."

Bucky's jaw drops open as his brain comes to a shuddering halt. _"What?”_ he squeaks. That small piece of the puzzle is all Bucky needs for the rest of the pieces to start snapping into place, rapidly filling in the picture. The very distorted picture. "No, that's not—we're not… Clint is one of my best friends, but that's it. We’re not… _together_.”

"You're not? But at the bar…"

"Oh, he's always draping himself over people. If you'd stuck around, by the end of the night, he'd be hanging all over you, too."

Steve shakes his head slowly. “He called you _his_ omega.”

Bucky's cheeks start to burn. "Oh, that's just…he just wanted something. He calls Nat the same thing when he's trying to convince her to watch Lucky."  
  
"Lucky?"  
  
"Clint's dog," Bucky says quickly.

"And Nat?"

"My other best friend. They're kind of a matched set."

The air rushes from Steve's lungs as he leans back against his chair, giving Bucky an odd look. "That's good," he says softly.

Bucky's stomach grumbles again, louder this time, and he appeases it by picking up three fries but pauses before popping them into his mouth. "What's good?"

"That you're… That you've got good friends like that. It's important to have people in your life you can count on."

There's something in the way Steve says it, something wistful in the tone that makes Bucky's chest ache, and he wonders if Steve has good friends to confide in and rely on. He can't imagine trying to suffer through the intense scrutiny and pressure of being a celebrity alone. "Do you have—"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I was just wondering if maybe I could get a photo?" The young beta—maybe eighteen—is standing by their table, hands clutched around her phone, shaking visibly, eyes locked on Steve. "I'm really sorry, I didn't want to ruin your meal, but I was just leaving and I, god, _I love you so much!_ You're my favorite actor, and I just love everything you do! I'm sorry, do you mind?"

Steve smiles up at her and shakes his head. "Of course not, sweetheart. What's your name?"

"Oh, my god! Thank you! I-I'm Bella!"

"It's lovely to meet you, Bella. You don't sound like you're from the city. You doing the tourist thing?"

Bella's head bounces up and down like a bobblehead. "Yeah, yep, I'm from San Diego. It's my birthday tomorrow and my mom bought me plane tickets to come and visit my cousin, and oh god, you're so much taller than you look in your movies," she babbles as Steve unfolds from his chair. "Oh, sorry, that's so rude, I didn't—"

"It's okay," Steve chuckles, "I hear that a lot. It's better than hearing I'm shorter than I look." He winks at her as he wraps an arm around her trembling shoulders.

She extends her arm, trying to hold the phone steady enough to press the button to take a photo but failing miserably.

"Here, let me," Bucky says, rising from his chair and carefully taking the phone from her hand.

Bella shoots him a grateful look. "Thank you."

"No problem. _Say 'Captain America!'"_ Bucky sing-songs, grinning as he takes three photos in quick succession, the artificial shutter click lost to the sound of Steve and Bella following his direction. He thumbs back through the pictures, checking they're not blurry. He looks up to find the sweet beta staring up at Steve with stars in her eyes and quickly snaps one more photo before handing the phone back. "Here you go."

"Thank you so much!" Bella takes her phone back and crushes it to her chest. "Both of you, thank you!"

Steve bends slightly, brushing his lips over her cheek. "Happy birthday for tomorrow, and enjoy the rest of your trip."

"You, too," Bella breathes, walking backward away from the table. "Um, I mean, thank you! Oh, god." She turns and dashes away, the hand not on her phone resting against her cheek.

"That was… wow," Bucky laughs, following Steve's lead and sinking back down into his chair. "Does that happen a lot?"

Steve hums. "Not usually here," he says guardedly before motioning to Bucky's plate. "Sorry. You should eat before it gets cold."

And suddenly Steve's hat and glasses and affinity for the creepy-plant ceiling makes sense. "That's why you like this place, huh? Everyone's usually too wrapped up in themselves to bother you?"

"It's not a bother," Steve says, wrapping those large hands around the burger and lifting it toward his mouth. He pauses, tilting his head to the side, considering. "To me, at least." He takes an impressive bite before returning the burger to the plate, then lifts the napkin to wipe the grease from his lips as he chews.

Bucky can't tear his eyes away from that plush lower lip, still slick and glistening despite Steve's efforts. He picks at his own burger. "But to _someone_ it is?"

When his mouth is empty again, Steve grins crookedly. "To a lot of someones, it was, yeah. All of them, actually. People like the idea of fame, but the reality is a lot less glamourous and a lot more intrusive than they're expecting. It's hard to share someone with the rest of the world."

The small, sad smile on Steve's lips ignites something hot and firey inside of Bucky. "That's bullshit."

Steve quirks an eyebrow at Bucky. "You think I'm lying?"

"No, I didn't mean—it's just... when you're with someone—if you were, well, like if you were, well, if you were _my_ alpha, I'd have a part of you that was mine, _just mine_ , you know? Something just for me that you gave no one else because that's how relationships work; it's how _love_ works. The people you were with are stupid and selfish if they gave away the part of you they had just because they couldn't keep all of you to themselves. That girl? Bella? Jesus. Did you see her face? You made her day—hell, you made her whole _life_ —that is the best birthday present she's ever going to get. You took time out of your life to make someone else's better. You should never be made to feel bad or apologize for that. _Ever._ " The passionate indignation burning his cheeks threatens to morph into embarrassment as Steve stares at him wordlessly, his face a mixture of confusion and surprise and something else Bucky can't place.

And, _shit._ He's done it again—overstepped, run his mouth, and shoved his foot in it. He braces himself for the clipped reprimand telling him it's none of his business... but it doesn't come.

Steve just lifts his burger again and nods toward Bucky's untouched one. "Eat up; you're going to need your strength."

Without even thinking, Bucky follows the order, lifting the cheeseburger before grimacing. "What for? You get another truckload of fan mail that needs sorting?"

"No. I'm going to need an extra set of hands to get into my costume after lunch," Steve grins. "I don't suppose you brought any oil with you?"


	8. A Recipe For Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shower sounds amazing right about now; he'd love nothing more than to scrub away the traveling grime that's clinging to his skin. But… he knows what will happen the minute his dick is free of its fabric prison, and he can't do that while Steve is in the next room, separated by nothing but a thin wall. He's not exactly quiet at the best of times, and moans of Steve's name echoing off the tiles while Bucky rewards his dick's bad behavior with a good time is a recipe for disaster—with him the star ingredient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. The US Election is stressing me out, and thus, I am distracting myself and hopefully you with an early update! (Don't yell at me in the next one is late. :P) 
> 
> ii. And, alright... Real talk for a minute. I had something planned for this chapter and Steve's backstory in general that in light of recent… instagram slips, I tried to find a workaround for. But, even with the helpful feedback and suggestions from our little writer discord group (I<3U guys, thank you!) I wasn't able to wrangle a satisfying alternative. The suggestions did help spawn a side quest/plotline, but I couldn't replace the original idea in a way that could deliver what I needed it to, and I wasn't willing to sacrifice it in the end. 
> 
> So! I'm sorry if part of this jolts you out of the story or causes other meta-y brain moments. I'm not trying to cash in on what went down at all, I had it planned as something that happens in the celebrity world, and then… some dumbass had to go and prove my point in a roundabout way. 
> 
> iii. This might be a bad one for those of you with secondhand embarrassment issues. Sorry!
> 
> iv. This chapter involves vomiting -- but like, in a cute way, it's fine. /cough. Just be warned if that's squicky. IDK? 
> 
> v. New tag added to the taggery, don't look if you don't wanna be spoiled, it's nothing bad, I promise. ;)

Pride swells in Bucky's chest. He knows it's undeserved and false, but it unfurls inside him nonetheless. It's a heady sensation, making him giddy as it thrums through his body like a drug—and just from walking beside Steve.

Well, not _just_ from walking beside him, but having people _look_ at them, at _him_ thinking he’s Steve’s mate… that he is _Steve’s_. It's written in the envious expressions being cast their way—obvious even through the familiar disdain at his designation—and God, is that what he looks like whenever he sees Sharon and Steve together?

But, no. He's not thinking about her now. She's off doing whatever it is she does when she's out of sight—probably torturing souls in the eighth circle of hell—but he's here, with Steve. And for right now, just for a moment, he's going to let himself pretend… going to soak in it until his hypothetical, undeserving, fake-mated fingers are pruney with it.

Or, fuck, okay… So it isn't _just one._ Maybe he's been reveling in the feeling since Steve had arrived early this morning to take him to the airport, and after helping him with his bag, had slid in beside him in the back instead of sitting up front with the driver as is customary for alphas. And maybe Bucky had been savoring it on their first-class flight— _his first ever_ —to Anchorage while they talked about Steve's ambitions to direct and the very many jobs on Bucky's resumé… then relished the comfortable silence—and the way Steve's thigh had pressed against his—on the short ride to their hotel. And, yeah, when Steve insisted on carrying both of their bags in one hand and pressed a gentle hand to Bucky's lower back to guide him forward and then _just fucking kept it there_ , well… so what if he had bought into the fantasy a little more than he should have?

It's not like anyone can judge him for the thoughts to which they aren't privy. And if Steve is oblivious—Steve, who he spends hours with every day—then obviously no one else could know, either, and he is free to stick his head in the vanilla-scented clouds and let his flights of fancy carry him away without consequence.

"Hmm. We might not get lucky this weekend."

Steve's voice startles Bucky out of his daydreams and into reality, and yep, it wouldn't be reality without him stumbling over his own feet. But the familiar warmth of Steve's hand darts out and grips his elbow and keeps him from faceplanting into the floor. Like always, Bucky gives a resigned sigh, and Steve gives a little squeeze before his hand drops.

"What do you mean?" Bucky asks warily, sending up a silent prayer that Steve is _not_ talking about getting _lucky_ with the other guests.

Steve smiles and nods toward the sprawling wilderness and the dark clouds hanging ominously low on the horizon. "It looks like rain. That'll dampen the plans for the outdoor ceremony tomorrow."

Bucky pauses, breath catching at the view from the charming log cabin style hotel's unenclosed balcony walkway. Here on the third—and top—floor, the panorama is incredible. It's like he's standing in front of a giant postcard. He didn't know places this pretty actually existed. Though he'd grown up in a concrete jungle and loves it, he could get used to all this clean air and wide-open space.

When his lungs reset, his breath puffs out in front of him, and he has to work hard to keep his inner five-year-old in check, wanting nothing more than to start huffing in the air and pretending to be a dragon. If Clint were here… But, no. With effort, he clears his childish desires along with his throat.

"Is there a backup plan? If it rains, I mean." Bucky waits until Steve has turned back to him before heading toward the last door on this floor, the one bearing fancy golden numbers that match the plastic keycard in his hand.

"There is, but Darcy won't be happy about having to put it into action," Steve grimaces.

"Well, I hope the weather holds then." Bucky swipes the card through the electronic lock, giving a pleased little hum when it works on the first try. All at once, the bubbling in his chest—the weird concoction of anxiety and anticipation—eases. Maybe all the hours spent worrying over this weekend had been for naught. Maybe everything really is going to be okay. Hell, maybe it'll even be _fun._

He holds the door open for Steve, flattening himself against it as the alpha strides past him, moving to place the bags on the floor by the queen-sized bed.

"For everyone's sake, I hope it does, too," Steve adds with a small smile.

Bucky shuts the door and follows him inside. "Okay, so this is you," he says, sweeping his arms around the large room. Just as advertised, it's a studio layout—bed, small entertaining area-slash-sitting room, and kitchenette all in an open plan design, but spacious enough to avoid that Bates Motel feel. "And I'm just through…" He steps past the bed and gestures to… a solid wall with a large canvas that, he suspects, is supposed to be art. It looks like someone spilled paint over whatever was originally on it, but that's not the point; the point is… _there's no door._ He frowns, mentally recalling the photos on the website, and yeah, this is precisely where the entrance to the adjoining room should be. But there's no door, which means there's no room, which means…  
  
_Oh, shit._

"Bucky? Is something wrong?"

"No. Um. Nope. Just…" Bucky spins, scanning the rest of the room just in case he's wrong—and please let him be wrong, pretty please with cherries on top. He turns in a slow circle—twice—before he gives up. With his heart pounding in his throat, he tries to keep his voice even, but it comes out strained, too high and reedy and riding the panic that is stampeding in full gallop through his brain. "I think, uh, they put us in the wrong… I mean, I booked a room with an adjoining one, so you know, I'd be close… ah, if you needed me… for… whatever. You know, if you needed yellow M&Ms at 3 am or something, but there must have been some kind of… but it's okay… I'll fix it," Bucky chirps, backing away from Steve. "Sorry. I'll be right back." He rushes from the room before Steve can get a word in, slipping out the door and all but running to reception.

Bucky tries to win the blond beta over, _again,_ with an unassuming smile, but her icy blue eyes do not thaw in the least. He should have known fate was not going to be his champion for this when the woman's nostrils had flared at his approach, and her blood-red lips had turned down at the corners. Apparently, anti-male omega sentiments are alive and well in Alaska. Thriving, in fact. _North to the Future,_ his ass, _Sstuck in the Past_ , more like.

"But, I booked that one on purpose."

"I understand, Sir, but as per our terms and conditions—which you agreed to when booking with us—we reserve the right to substitute a room for another of equal or greater value at our discretion."

"Yeah, that's… Okay, I _get_ that, I do, but the thing is… the one I booked had an adjoining room."

"That's correct."

"And this one doesn't."

"Also correct."

"So.." Bucky gestures helplessly, waiting for the beta to connect the dots. But after an uncomfortable silence where all dots remain untouched, he clears his throat. "So, you kinda owe me a room."

"That is incorrect. According to your booking, you booked the single room but not the adjoining one. Being as they're separate rooms, they require separate reservations. You only reserved one room."

“I _— what?_" Bucky squeaks. "Oh, you hae got to be kidding me."

"No, sir."

Bucky resists the urge to snap at her. If he hears one more _sir_ , he's going to lose it. But, if he does that, she's likely to lose his reservation completely. He should have put it under Rogers, of course, he should have, but he didn't know if Steve used fake names to protect his privacy when traveling and had opted to put it under Barnes instead…because clearly, he's an absolute fucking moron.

Bucky pulls in a deep breath and pushes his lips into a smile that takes so much effort it causes him physical pain. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize that. But It's fine. I'll just pay for the other room now if you could switch us back?"

"I'm sorry, Sir, but someone else is currently occupying that room and the adjoining one."

Bucky lets out an impatient huff. Of course they are. "Okay. Then any other room is fine. They don't even have to be connected, just… close would be good, but whatever you have available is fine."

"We have nothing available."

Grinding his teeth, Bucky seethes silently as he counts to ten. _One fucking bigot. Two fucking bigots. Three fucking bigots…_

"You didn't even check."

"We're fully booked. We have a Bonding Ceremony booked this weekend."

 _"I know,"_ Bucky grits out from behind clenched teeth. "That's why I'm here. Look. You know what? I don't care what it is… a single, a suite, a broom closet, but I need a room, okay? Because I am here with my boss, and I cannot stay in one room, with one bed, with my fucking boss," he bites out, the threads of his fraying patience finally snapping.

"I'm sorry, Mister Barnes, but there's nothing I can do for you."

"Right, no, of course. Thank you, you've been a tremendous help," Bucky sasses. "I'll be sure to leave you a glowing review on Yelp." He spins on his heel—grim satisfaction flickering inside him as the beta's brows jump up to her hairline—and heads back to the room… the one room… that he absolutely _cannot_ share with Steve.

 _Oh, God._  
  
This had been his first task Steve had set him on his first damn day… and he'd fucked it up. He'd been too busy attempting to ignore Sharon trying to suck Steve's soul out through his mouth that he'd messed up. But really, what did he expect? He should have double checked. But everything has been going so well he's become complacent. The universe has been luring him into a false sense of security, letting him find his feet just to rip the rug out from under him.

Because since their first lunch at FireHouse, things have settled into a nice, easy rhythm, going back to normal, or the _new_ normal, at least. As it turned out, Steve hadn't needed help getting into his costume, for which Bucky was both extraordinarily grateful and severely disappointed. In fact, Steve hadn't added any oiling duties to his job list _— that_ hadn't changed much at all. What _has_ changed is his level of job satisfaction… and how could it not when he wakes to find an attachment in his inbox every morning with a handwritten list of tasks, complete with cute doodles? It gives him a buzz rivaling that of a triple espresso, lasting clear through the end of the list, and then... _then_ he heads to set and spends the rest of the afternoon with Steve. 

It's actually starting to make him feel a little guilty.

Being paid to run a few errands before hanging out with the most amazing man on the face of the planet hardly seems fair. But maybe it's just his reward for working retail last Christmas and not murdering a single customer _—_ though it would have been justifiable homicide. In any case, the hours he spends every day losing his M&M stash to Steve in card games, or running lines, or even just talking are the highlight of his day.

And, any day Steve has enough time to cut out for lunch, they'd head to FireHouse. It has sort of become _their_ spot. It had jumped from Bucky's 'never going to revisit list' to 'list of top ten favorite places'… though that's more to do with the way Steve always hooks his cap over Bucky's head to protect him from what they now know are real plants, and any errant murder bugs that may be lying in wait, ready to strike. And maybe it has a _little_ to do with the way long, thick fingers ruffled the strands after tugging the cap off once they were outside again. Bucky tried his best in those situations not to drop to the floor and roll over and beg for belly rubs like an overexcited pup _—_ even though _overexcited_ perfectly summed up his pants feels.

And while he hasn't been able to temper his reactions to Steve, even with the sobering knowledge that he will never have occasion to live out his incredibly vivid, creative fantasies, thankfully he has gotten much better at hiding them. He hasn't had as much luck with shaking his moments of abject humiliation, though. But whether he's become more comfortable in Steve's presence, or just resigned to his own fate of being a natural disaster in human form, his odds of stumbling or tripping have lessened, now down to two or three a day. And he hasn't landed on his ass since that day at the trailer _—_ though to be completely honest, he can't take sole credit for that one, not when Steve is always close enough to catch him when gravity is feeling particularly frisky.

He's also been unable to best his slips of the tongue _._ There's just something about Steve's magnetic field that renders Bucky's brain-to-mouth filter completely worthless whenever he's within kissing range _—_ which, knowing Steve could catch him as easily as a human frisbee if he just launched himself at the alpha means that's like a five-foot radius _—_ but, at this point, Bucky's just ridiculously grateful his tongue isn't hanging out of his mouth like a horny cartoon version of himself, dripping drool onto his shirt.

All in all, everything is pretty perfect… if he just ignores the fact his crush is becoming more intense, inconvenient, and borderline intolerable the more he gets to know Steve.

And… oh, shit.

_Steve._

The flash of panic charging through his body leaves a cold sweat prickling over his skin, making him itchy. How the hell is he going to explain this to _Steve?_

Or…

_Huh._

Does he _have_ to explain it? Does he have to tell Steve at all?

Bucky's feet stall two steps away from Steve's door, coming to a standstill as his body funnels all available resources to his brain, patching together a hasty plan.

He could… well, not _lie_ , exactly, but just not tell Steve _precisely_ what happened. He could say it is Steve's room, which is true, that they had to change rooms, also true, and that he won't be far away, which, he can find somewhere to spend the night, maybe the lobby, and that's not too far away, so again, technically not a lie. Steve never has to know about the mistake, and Bucky doesn't have to deal with the humiliation of Steve knowing he messed up _—_ or, God, worse, trying to sleep in the same room as the alpha of his dreams. The floor would have nothing on how hard he'd be, and with his dick used to its nightly attention, riled up and stripped down to thoughts of Steve, he's not sure he'll be able to get through the night without embarrassing himself spectacularly and actually dying of shame.

"Bucky? Is everything okay?

Bucky blinks himself out of his on-the-fly planning to see Steve stepping out of the room dressed in fresh clothes _—_ tight black jeans, a thin cream sweater, and a gorgeous, caramel-color calf-length heavy coat.

"Why are you dressed?"

Steve arches a single brow, his lips twitching, fighting back the smile that makes Bucky's knees weak. "Was I supposed to be naked?"

Oh, now _there's_ an image that will wake up his dick any second, and, oh, yep, right on time. Bucky shifts on his feet. "I mean, why are you dressed like _that?"_

"The buck's party. I told you about it, didn't I?"

Bucky shakes his head slowly. "No, but that's okay. Um, have fun. I'll just grab the phone, so if you need _—_ "

"Aren't you going to come?"

Bucky gapes at Steve silently, wrestling his brain away from the gutter.

"You're more than welcome. Unless you'd rather some time alone? It might be a long night, so if you're tired…"

"No, no, that's… good," Bucky says slowly, the wheels in his head picking up momentum. A long night… somewhere that isn't the hotel lobby or Steve's room. What if this is an apology gift from the universe; it would be rude to reject it. "Yeah, that sounds great."

"Did we have to switch rooms? Or do you want to stop at yours to freshen up or change?"

"Ah, no, that's not _—_ " Bucky grimaces. A shower sounds amazing right about now; he'd love nothing more than to scrub away the traveling grime that's clinging to his skin. But… he knows what will happen the minute his dick is free of its fabric prison, and he can't do that while Steve is in the next room, separated by nothing but a thin wall. He's not exactly quiet at the best of times, and moans of Steve's name echoing off the tiles while Bucky rewards his dick's bad behavior with a good time is a recipe for disaster—with him the star ingredient. "Um, no, it's all good. I'll just grab my bag later. Unless…" He picks at his own dark sweater nervously. "I've never been to a buck's party. Do I need anything?"

"Bucky's never been to a buck's party." Steve's eyes dance with amusement. "No. Just say no to Beer Pong, and you'll be fine."

The room blurs a little around the edges as Bucky shakes his head urgently. "I can't." He giggles before pressing his fingers against his lips.

"Yes, you can." Steve smiles as his large hand wraps around Bucky's arm and squeezes reassuringly. "I have faith in you."

"Come on, Rogers, tell your omega to hurry up; we don't have all night. I'll be bonded before he takes his turn," Loki huffs.

_Your omega._

Bucky's cheeks, already red from too much alcohol thanks to Loki's sharp aim, increase in saturation courtesy of his equally sharp tongue. But Steve rolls his eyes as he turns to his childhood friend, and Bucky braces himself for the quick denial that will chase away the pleasant buzz humming through his body.

"You should be encouragin' him to take his time, Lo'. It's prolonging your inevitable defeat."

Loki's reply is lost to the roaring in Bucky's ears, his vodka-soaked brain desperately trying to process Steve's words and his lack of correction. It doesn't mean anything, of course it doesn't, he knows that logically… but his heart obviously hasn't received the latest firmware update, and right now, that _nothing_ feels an awful lot like _everything_.

"Bucky?"

"Huh?" Bucky blinks himself back out into the world to see Steve peering down at him again.

"You ready?"

His fingers squeeze reflexively around the ping pong ball in his hand. "Oh, yeah."

He shakes his head, trying to clear the mental glitch, then does his best to block out everything around him but the cup at the other end of the long table. The extravagant suite is filled with faces he can't pick out with any certainty beyond the Greek God from the bar he now knows as Thor and his brother, Loki _—_ the guest of honor tonight and the one to be bonded tomorrow _—_ and Steve, of course, but he can feel all of their eyes fixed on him, waiting. A hush sweeps the room as he lifts his hand to shoulder height. It'll be a 2-1 victory in his and Steve's favor if he can just land this ball.

After a deep breath, he crosses the fingers of his free hand and lobs the ball toward Loki, holding his breath as it sails through the air… and sinks into the cup.

 _"Yes!"_ Bucky's arms stretch skyward in victory just as Steve's circle around his waist. Bucky's feet lift from the ground as his back connects with the hardness of Steve's chest, and the room spins around him, raucous cheering and jeering ringing in his ears as the other guests rooting for both sides celebrate and commiserate their win. Bucky's fingers clutch tightly at Steve's forearms instinctively as he's turned in dizzying circles, again and again, Steve's laugh rumbling into his back and freeing one of his own.

After the fifth rotation, Steve stops and sets him down gently, hands sliding from his body agonizingly slowly. "Knew you could do it, Buck."

"No, you didn't," Bucky says breathlessly as he turns toward Steve _—_ the giddiness rushing through him not all caused by the spinning. “Even _I_ didn’t know I could do it.”

"Because you don't know how amazing you are," Steve murmurs. “But _I_ never had a doubt.”

Steve leans closer, close enough for Bucky to smell the alcohol on his breath, and Bucky could _—_ oh, he could just press up on his tippy toes and press his lips to Steve's and _taste_ him, he could get drunk on Steve, not that he isn't halfway there already, and maybe, _maybe_ Steve would kiss him back. He licks at his suddenly dry lips.

There's only one way to find out…

The blood pounding through his veins is almost painful in its intensity, but liquid courage is thrumming right along with it, the only reason he's even considering this, and oh, god, his hands are on Steve's belly, when the fuck did he do that? He can feel the perfect muscles and the enticing lines carved between them even through the sweater like a marble statue brought to life, a god he's not worthy to set eyes upon, and yet, Steve's meeting his gaze, holding it, dark eyes searching Bucky's very soul, and Steve's head is moving down, and Bucky's is tilting up, and he's rising up on his toes and… and, _oh_.

…that's not the only thing rising.

Bucky jerks back abruptly before he throws a hand over his mouth and darts past Steve, body-checking him in his rush to make it to the glass doors directly ahead of him. His shoulder is aching from where it had collided with God knows what _—_ a rib? A bicep? It's much muchness when it comes to the rock formation masquerading as a human. He charges out onto the balcony, barely registering the cold air pinching at his heated skin before his wild eyes find a large planter, and he's falling to his knees in front of it and reacquainting himself with his stomach contents.

Though it's been somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty years since he's been on his knees for more sanctified reasons, he isn't one to squander the opportunity, and he sends up a string of silent prayers that Steve does not follow him out here.

The groan he grinds out as his stomach clenches again has nothing to do with the flow of second-hand alcohol flooding over his tongue in reverse.

_Of fucking course._

Steve squats down beside him, and large hands come to sweep the curtain of hair away from his cheeks. He must gather it in one hand because the other wide palm is now rubbing up and down his back, and _ah,_ that feels nice. Bucky's twin instincts take up arms in his brain, wanting to melt back into the touch and wanting to jerk away, his humiliation so great he's sure his face alone is increasing the ambient temperature by at least fifty degrees. Melting into a puddle of molten shame would be a mercy, and he waits, hoping for an end to his suffering.

And then, of course, he heaves again.

"That's it," Steve murmurs, the hand not pausing in the comforting strokes, "Get it all out. Good boy."

Bucky's hands grip the edge of the ceramic pot hard enough to _hurt_ , but it's not the only thing aching. He curls his fingers tighter, trying desperately to steal sensation away from where his dick is fattening up so quickly he's legitimately concerned he's just going to chub up and then come all over himself with nothing but praise and a literal pat on the back.

He drops his head to the rim of the planter, ignoring the smell of beer and bile, and pulls cold air into his lungs, trying his best to think boner-killing thoughts. He should have taken Steve's advice. Hell, _Steve_ should have taken his own advice. But once Loki had somehow cajoled Bucky into playing the drinking game _—_ and he's still not sure how that happened _—_ Steve had been adamant that he be Bucky's partner, and now he's paying the price. Why does the price always come after? And why the hell does he never see it coming?

He doesn't know how long they stay there, Steve silently comforting him while he claws himself back from the brink, but after a while, when Bucky's sure he can stand without embarrassing himself further, he lifts his head.

"I'm okay now. Thanks," he mutters, scrubbing the cuff of a sweater sleeve over his mouth _—_ the last thing he needs is for a reminder of his pathetic display plastered across his face for the rest of the night.

The hand lifts from his back the same moment Steve releases his hair, and then both hands are grasping his waist, steadying him as they rise together.

“Sorry, Buck. That one _was_ on me.”

Bucky steps away from Steve, both grateful and grieving when the physical connection breaks. "No, it was _my_ fault for getting conned into playing Beer Pong after you warned me not to. Or, well, Beer Pong and then Vodka Pong, I guess. But it does mean I have to tender my resignation now."

Steve's eyes narrow, his body going rigid. "What are you talking about?"

"This _—_ " Bucky gestures toward the planter before ducking his head, staring at his feet " _—_ is just… I can't come back from this. Maximum mortification achieved. I'm never going to be able to look you in the eyes again," he mumbles.

Steve's low laugh is enough to make him break his declaration immediately, and he frowns up at Steve's bright smile. "After falling in front of me, having me sign your arm, giving me a concussion, _this_ is what counts as your greatest embarrassment?"

"I have a thing about…" Bucky sighs. "It doesn't matter, but yeah, worst humiliation ever."

"In your whole life?" Steve shakes his head. "That's hard to believe. What about before you met me?"

The comment makes Bucky's brain startle, though thankfully, his body doesn't follow suit. Before he met Steve… that feels like a lifetime ago. It doesn't seem possible that only a few weeks have passed, but somehow, it is. Almost four weeks. One month. One-third of his way through the contract. He tenses as his belly turns sour, worried he's about to go for bonus mortification points. But it's dread, not alcohol souring his stomach _—_ the realization he only has eight more weeks until his contract is up. He only has eight more weeks with Steve.

"Bucky?"

"What? Oh. No, um, you don't need more blackmail material on me," Bucky replies weakly.

"What about a trade, then?" Steve hums. "You show me yours, and I'll show you mine."

Bucky huffs out a frustrated breath as that image throbs through both heads at once. "You do that on purpose, don't you?"

"Do what?"

Steve's face is a picture of innocence, no twinkling eyes or mischievous grin, and Bucky swallows down his groan. He's still reading too much into things, projecting his desires on to Steve just to see them reflected back at him. He should excuse himself, retreat to the lobby and regroup because his current strategy of _fuck it, just go with it_ doesn't seem to be gaining him any ground. Still, he has to admit the idea of hearing Steve's most humiliating moment is worth reliving one of his own, and he has to face facts, it's not like he has any dignity left to lose.

"Nothing," he sighs. "Okay, fine. My freshman year, I, well… I was sick. In class."

"Okay…"

"No, I mean…" Bucky gestures back to the pot. _”Sick_ sick. I felt nauseous, and the teacher kept droning on and on, and I should have hightailed it outside, at least then I wouldn't have had an audience…"

Steve's lips twitch, but at Bucky's dark look, they pinch together tightly instead of curving up. "But, you didn't."

"No, of course not. Have you met me? I always make the worst possible decision," Bucky sighs. "I sat there, a cold sweat breaking out over my entire body, stomach clenching, and then…" He makes a sweeping motion up from his stomach as he drops his mouth open, miming a tame re-enactment of the moment that has haunted him for years.

"That's it?"

Bucky bristles at the implication that _that_ wasn't harrowing enough to deserve at least ten years of intensive therapy. "Oh, it gets worse."

Steve raises an eyebrow but remains quiet.

"Breakfast that morning was just cherry Kool-Aid."

Steve's brow furrows momentarily before realization dawns. " _Ahh._ So when you vomited, it looked like…"

"Like I was throwing up blood," Bucky confirms, lips twisting sourly. "Everyone was staring at me, and I couldn't do anything but sit there watching it spreading out to cover my entire desk before dripping off the sides and onto the carpet."

"Oh, Buck." Steve's voice is thick with pained amusement, and Bucky's cheeks burn impossibly hotter.

"I felt better immediately, getting it out of my system, you know? But when the teacher sent me to the sickbay, I couldn't get there quick enough. They sent me home, and I managed to convince my ma to keep me there for two days afterward. I wanted to change schools or states, but…" Bucky shrugs.

"Okay, that is pretty good. But, worst ever?"

Bucky shakes his head sadly.

“There’s _more?”_

"When I finally went back, the guy I had a crush on for three years who didn't even know my name came up to me before class, and suddenly he knew it. He told me the teacher had made him clean up the mess I made. He and his friends called me _Upchucky Bucky_ until I graduated."

The laugh bursting free from Steve's chest is so warm in the cold night that Bucky steps closer without thought or intent just to breathe it in, letting it filter into his every cell and bring them up to match the temperature in his cheeks.

"Oh, god, that's… that's horrible," Steve grinds out, wrestling back the amusement. "Oh, Buck. I'm so sorry that happened to you."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I'll remember this level of sympathy after your turn," Bucky huffs.

The comment makes Steve sober instantly, all teasing mirth disappearing as surely as if Bucky had flicked a switch. "You already know mine."

"What do you mean? Don't try your Jedi mind tricks on me; you're not getting off that easily. I just spilled my guts to you _—_ about spilling my actual guts _—_ now it's your turn to share."

Confusion clouds Steve's face as he regards Bucky assessingly. "You really don't know?"

"Know what?"

Steve's quiet for a long moment. From the corner of his eye, Bucky can see Steve running the pad of his thumb over the blunt nails of his hand, flicking at them in a way that, if Bucky didn't know better, seems like an anxious gesture. But Steve is _Steve_ , there’s no way…

"Last year, someone hacked my phone, and some photos and videos were stolen and published. One of them was… very intimate."

Bucky hates himself. He does. He knows he's a very, very bad person when his dick twitches at Steve's comment. He's not excited by the fact that they'd been stolen, of course, but the knowledge that Steve has taken pictures of himself _in that way_ is doing things to him that, well… not even a lap in an Olympic size swimming pool filled with holy water will remove the filthy thoughts now staining his soul. He swallows thickly as his blood makes a heroic attempt to remain circulating in his brain, keeping his essential thought processes online, though only barely.

But the pinched expression on Steve's face makes Bucky's chest tighten painfully. He hadn't meant to extinguish the light shining in those ocean eyes; he'd been expecting a story about falling on the red carpet or getting aroused during a love scene or having a costume malfunction from cloth trying to wrap around that ridiculous body. But Steve is looking at him like a convicted man standing at the gallows as if judgment has already been passed and he's resigned to his fate.

Because… God, Steve thinks Bucky knows, _thinks he's seen the pictures._

Bucky sets his shoulders, lifting his chin in challenge. If he's the reason the mood has shifted, gone down quicker than the Titanic, it stands to reason he can fix it… or embarrass himself so horribly trying that Steve will have no choice but to flash that dazzling smile again.

"Yeah, no," Bucky draws out slowly. "That's not going to cut it, I'm afraid. My story is much, _much_ worse. I still win, sorry."

Steve's gaze turns apprehensive and considering. There's a heavy beat before he asks quietly, "How do you figure?"

"Well, yours isn't that big. I mean _—_ " Bucky can feel his eyes edging wide at Steve's arched brow, " _—_ or it might be big, I don't know, I haven't seen _—_ I mean, fuck." He sighs. "Look, you said _some_ photos, not _my_ photos, right? So if it wasn't you, and what's in the photo wasn't, you know, a, uh _big deal_ , then it doesn't matter what people think. And if it was you, then there's no way it _couldn't_ be a big deal, so if the photo was… _impressive,_ then the whole world knows you're… impressive, and um, bonus, it's gifted you the best pick-up lines, ever."

The wariness shuttering Steve's face eases with each word of the rambling, stuttered explanation until finally, the small, bemused smile he often wears when looking at Bucky is curving his lips. "Which is?"

"I mean, take your pick. Tell them the photo _doesn’t_ last longer than the real thing. Tell them you had to use a wide-angle lens to fit it into the frame. Ask them if they want to see it in real life and compare. I'm not seeing a downside to this, or, well, invasion of privacy aside, for the cringe factor, I definitely still win."

Steve's eyes narrow. "And what if I said it gets worse?"

 _Oh, Jesus._ Bucky curls his fingers into fists and only narrowly avoids shoving one into his mouth and biting down… _hard_. What _else_ could it be? Oh, god, please don’t let it be a sex tape, _please_. "Is it _—_ " his voice is thin, too high, and he clears his throat carefully. "Uh, do you really think it can beat years of _Upchucky Bucky?"_

Steve's eyes search his, looking for _what_ Bucky doesn't know, but he holds the gaze steadily, opening himself up, letting Steve look, letting Steve take whatever he needs.

"I can't quite figure you out, Bucky Barnes." Steve shakes his head slowly. "You're unlike anyone I've ever met."

The words are low and heavy and unfurl in Bucky's chest, sparking something he doesn't dare to examine too closely, but it makes him feel like he's floating and drowning all at once. The constant state of being off-balance around Steve is a sensation he doesn't think he'll ever get used to.

Bucky's heart drops to his feet. No… he _knows_ he won't. He won't have the chance; in eight weeks, Steve will no longer be in his life. A shiver skates down his spine at the thought, and he wraps his arms around his body as if he can protect himself from the truth.

"You're not a big fan of the cold, are you?" Steve says with a small frown, shrugging out of his coat.

Bucky realizes what Steve's doing a second too late, and before he can open his mouth to protest, the heavy fabric is already draping around his shoulders, and then _—_ well, then it's too late because oh, no, Steve's never getting this back. He slips his arms into the sleeves before hugging it tightly around himself, snuggling into the soft cocoon of vanilla-scented warmth, soaking in Steve's second-hand body heat with a small, contented sigh.

"Not really. I've always found it easier to cool down than warm up. Take off layers or jump in the shower, you know?"

Steve chuckles, dark and delicious, and Bucky is overcome with the desire to lick into his mouth and taste the sound. He bets it would be as sweet as chocolate… and just as addictive. And suddenly, he's even more grateful for the coat and hopes it keeps the moisture leaking over his skin warm enough to avoid it turning to ice crystals in awkward places. That would be… unpleasant.

"Uh, what's funny about that?"

"It's just… you just said you like to be naked and wet."

Bucky's whole world goes a little hazy at the comment, and the low suggestive tone that makes it sound very much like Steve is picturing _him_ naked and wet, and he bites into his lip to keep the whimpering moan on the right side of his teeth. He blinks furiously, trying to clear the fog. It doesn't work, of course, and it takes three attempts for his brain to put two and two together.

It's not acute internal pressure caused by his need to come desperately being denied twice in such a short period of time, resulting in rapidly forming cataracts, it's just the heat from his face _—_ probably only half a degree off melting point at this stage _—_ meeting the cold night air has made his glasses fog up, obscuring his exceedingly lovely view, and no doubt making him look utterly ridiculous. Bucky snatches the chunky purple-black frames from his face and lifts the hem of his sweater to clean them.

He doesn't need to look up to see Steve's amused gaze; he can feel the weight of it against his chest like someone left him unsupervised at the gym, and he's dropped a three hundred pound weighted bar flush across his body.

"I… oh. I didn't mean _—_ " Bucky hedges before giving up, realizing he has no idea how to answer that at all.

"It's okay, Buck. Naked and wet is one of my favorites, too," Steve offers huskily, eyes dropping to Bucky's lips as he licks them nervously.

It shouldn't be possible for Bucky's cheeks to be this hot in freezing weather but damned if his body isn't one for defying science. He lifts his glasses to his eye line and looks through them, pleased to note the lenses are no longer opaque. Though there is a streak across the left lens that looks suspiciously bile-colored.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"Here." Steve, a little blurry around the edges, holds out his hand, and there, resting in his palm, is…

Bucky takes it gingerly, lifting it close enough that even in the dim light, through his less than twenty-twenty vision, there's no mistaking the red stains on the pale plum-colored fabric; it's the handkerchief he'd given Steve the first day they met.

"Will this work?"

"It's mine," Bucky states dumbly.

"Yeah. It's clean; I washed it. I've been meaning to give it back to you, but…" Steve trades words for a smile and pushes his hands into the pocket of his coat. "Thanks for letting me borrow it."

"Uh-huh," Bucky squeaks, dropping his focus to his hands as he cleans his glasses, praying Steve can't see them tremble.

Steve had kept the handkerchief.

_Steve had it in his pocket._

Bucky spins away, shoving the cloth into his jeans pocket before pushing his glasses back onto his face and walking to the balcony's railing. It doesn't mean anything. It wasn't a favor he'd given to his alpha in a teary goodbye as he boarded the train as they were cruelly parted, never to be reunited again. It wasn't a token of affection or something the least bit valuable; it was just a piece of material that Bucky had given Steve to shove up his nose to stop him from bleeding out through his face at the convention center. It's not a big deal.

Truthfully, Bucky hadn't thought any more about it since then, but of course Steve wouldn't throw it away. Of course he'd fucking washed it. He probably did it by hand with hand soap and dried it with a hairdryer because that's the type of guy Steve is. He was carrying it around to give it back, that's it. Bucky needs to stop reading into things… it's going to get him into trouble.

… _More_ trouble.

Huffing out a sigh, he tips his face up. Delicate magenta rays flutter across the edges of vivid green curves as they dance across the sky. Another tremor dances down his spine as the serene sight begins to calm his nerves.

"You're still shivering."

"Yeah." Bucky nods his head toward the Northern Lights. "This kinda makes the cold worth it, though. It's beautiful."

Bucky feels rather than sees Steve come up behind him, and he holds his breath. He senses the hesitation before that broad chest is pressing against his back and strong arms are wrapping around his waist again.

"Yeah," Steve breathes out, the warm breath kissing Bucky's neck. "Incredible."

For a split second, Bucky freezes, going rigid in Steve's arms, but then they tighten, and Bucky melts into the embrace with a small sigh. His eyes flutter closed _._ Nature's light show pales in comparison to the fireworks Steve is setting off inside his body.

"Warm enough?" Steve's voice is husky in Bucky's ear, and the new tremor spiraling through him has nothing to do with the temperature.

"Mhm. Perfect," Bucky hums happily. Because it is; it's amazingly, _devastatingly_ perfect, and God help him, it just feels _right_ here in Steve's arms, like they were designed to hold him close and never let go. The sudden realization that _that's_ what he wants is enough to steal a beat of his heart.

"Bucky?"

"I, uh, sorry. I was just thinking that… um, aren't _you_ cold now?"

"No, I'm good. These movie muscles come in handy for something."

"I'm sure they come in handy for a lot of somethings," Bucky says under his breath.

"Hmm? Like what? Got something particular in mind, Buck?" Steve husks out.

"Uhh…" Bucky's brain floods with images of being manhandled, large hands clamped on his hips, Steve lifting him before driving him back down, again and again, hard and fast and rough, for all intents and purposes jerking off using Bucky's body like a human fleshlight while he just clings to Steve and enjoys the ride _—_ and Jesus, where the fuck did that come from?

"Sorry to interrupt, but the strip _—_ uh, the entertainment is here, and Loki is demanding everyone be in attendance."

Bucky stiffens at the voice behind them, expecting Steve's arms to fall away at being caught in a could-be-viewed-as-compromising position, but the only movement is that broad chest against his back as Steve pushes out a long-suffering sigh.

"Of course he does. We'll be right in." Steve's arms tighten around him before falling away. "Do you want to stay? If you're not comfortable or tired, or… we could leave…"

Bucky wants to leave. Wants it more than anything _—_ to take Steve's hand and run back to the room _—_ their shared room _—_ and strip naked and spend hours letting Steve warm him up. But what he wants and what he can have are two different things.

The only luck riding shotgun at the moment is the bad kind, and he does not want to know what that looks like confined in a single room with Steve Rogers, his own inappropriate thoughts, and a raging hard-on. Steve's interest may be piqued here _—_ half-drunk, with no girlfriend to make him feel good _—_ and may be content to flirt and partake in a little stress-relieving, no-strings fun, but it would never be anything more. The sun will rise tomorrow with a soul-maiming rejection bright on the horizon, and Bucky would actually have to resign. Because he's let his crush get out of hand, allowed his fantasies to grow too big for his head and overflow into his fucking heart. As much as he wants Steve, he couldn't bear to have him only to lose him. To have to work beside him, see him every day and know what it feels like to be held in his arms, to know the taste of his mouth, his skin, his pleasure… Bucky's not strong enough for that.

So he does the only thing he can: he lies through his teeth.

"No, it's fine. It sounds fun."

It wasn't fun.

The strippers came and stripped down to g-strings and goosebumps as a bunch of drunken idiots slurred terrible come-ons and clapped like trained seals. Loki politely declined the proffered lap dance, and the pretty omegas shifted their attention to Thor and Steve while Bucky tried his best not to chip a tooth with how hard he was clenching his jaw.

He'd excused himself to clean the mess he'd made of his underwear earlier, and thankfully, he'd emerged to find the entertainment gone, and the group now on the comfortable sofas in front of the tv, the focus on room service and beer, and some stupid comedy Bucky hadn't seen. And propped up against the overstuffed couch, thigh pressing against Steve's, the sound of raucous laughter was the last thing he heard before the exhaustion he didn't know he felt lulled him into darkness.  
  
  


It's the cold that wakes him, his whole body trembling with it as he jerks to a sitting position on the couch. The other guests are spread around the room _—_ some curled up on the bed, some sprawled out on the chairs around him _—_ including Steve, head tucked to his chest as it rises and falls steadily in sleep _—_ and there, on the floor beside the couch, Thor is curled on his side, head propped on a couch cushion, with an honest to God _blanket._

He wraps Steve's coat more tightly around himself, sending up a prayer of thanks for the extra layer. He's not sure he wouldn't have gone the way of Jack in Titanic given another half-hour without it. He scans the bodies around him, but no, they're all breathing, no shivering or icicles in sight, and how the fuck are they not freezing?

As carefully as he can manage, not wanting to jostle Steve, he slides from the couch and quietly sets about exploring the suite for another blanket. Four bodies are on the bed, a tangle of limbs piled over all the bedding, still tucked tightly into the mattress. The single linen cupboard is bare, and the only other source of fabric warmth is snaked around a large, imposing alpha with an eye patch, curled up in a chair by the balcony doors, but Bucky had only been introduced to him briefly and he wasn't exactly giving off warm and fuzzy vibes.  
  
He pads back to Thor, squats down beside him, and hesitates only a moment before putting a hand on a broad shoulder and nudging him gently.

"Hmm?"

"Sorry to wake you," Bucky whispers, "but I, uh, was wondering where you got the blanket? I'm not exactly a winter person."

"That makes two of us," Thor says groggily, stifling a yawn. "I took the last one, I'm afraid, but I'm quite willing to share."

"Oh." Indecision tears at Bucky. On the one hand, there's the promise of warmth. On the other hand… nope, no other hand can beat that. "Yeah, if you don't mind? Just… just one second."

He shrugs out of the coat before padding over to Steve, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering as he lays it over the sleeping alpha carefully, inch by inch, until it's draping over his chest. And, Jesus, now all Bucky wants to do is follow the coat into Steve's lap, to curl up and snuggle down and let Steve's body heat ignite flames inside him bright enough to burn away the chill in his bones.

But his ma had taught him better than taking without asking, and life had taught him that grand-scale rejection never kills, just makes him wish it had. Reluctantly, he moves back to Thor and the promise of warmth, then drops to the floor. He shuffles as close as he dares, leaving what he hopes is a proper cushion of space between them. Still, the awkwardness makes him cringe internally.

"Um, t-thank you f-for th-this," Bucky chatters, immediately realizing he's made a tactical error in relinquishing the coat. The floor is freezing, the carpet doing nothing to trap his body heat. Not one of his better ideas. He clamps his jaw closed, but the sheer power of the ice freezing through his veins sets his teeth knocking together like one of those ridiculous wind-up toys.

He's going to die. He's going to die in Alaska without ever having felt Steve Rogers inside of him and it'll be his greatest regret. Nat will probably have it chiseled on his tombstone: _Here lies James Buchanan Barnes. Didn't get dicked down because he couldn't nut up._

"Don't take this the wrong way, please,' Thor says quietly.

"T-take w-what the wr-wrong way?"

There's no answer but a massive arm curling around Bucky's back and dragging him close until his face is crushing against a solid wall of muscled chest.

"Your teeth are making too much noise," Thor hums sleepily. "And I have to look m'best for photos in the morn."

The scent of fennel floods Bucky's nose, and beneath that, this close, he can pick up the faintest traces of ozone pushing through Thor's skin. Bucky startles, realizing it's the alpha's natural musk. His cock gives an instinctual, half-hearted twitch of interest, but then, the sweet comfort of heat settling onto his skin and sinking deeper makes his head thick and heavy, and he lets his eyes close. Feeling nothing but the rhythmic rise and fall of Thor's chest, Bucky relaxes gradually.

The trembling stops as the furnace of Thor's body fills the blanket cocoon perfectly. Bucky edges his upper body back a little, enough to duck his head low to his sweater and the soft vanilla scent still lingering on him from being wrapped in Steve's coat. With his eyes closed, and the scent and the warmth and the hard body, it would be so easy to pretend… pretend he has everything he wants, pretend Steve is curled up beside him, pretend Steve is _his._

He pulls in a deep breath of Steve's scent and lets himself believe. After all, a little fantasy never hurt anybody, right?  
  



	9. A Building Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve's intense stare pins Bucky to his chair and knocks the air from his lungs. His skin burns hot in the cold air whispering of a building storm, but whatever nature has in store cannot compare to the hurricane already raging inside him as he holds Steve's gaze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I've never actually read a fic with a bonding ceremony, so I had to kick this one around in my head for a longggg time before I decided on the specifics and technicalities. I'm actually really happy with what I came up with, both vows & the hows (hehe) of bondings, and I'm going to stick to this pretty faithfully through all of my omegaverse fics (so I kinda hope you guys like it, too). 
> 
> ii. I need to thank Kel ([@kalee60](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalee60)) for letting me borrow her stroke of shippy genius of Loki/Darcy from her amazing [Subliminal Advertising](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952618) sequel [The Rise Of Darcy: A Subliminal Advertising Epilouge ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25665970). (You should 10/10 check them out if you love humour, puns, and/or disaster Bucky.) <3333 Thank you, lovely one!
> 
> iii. This is… okay, so, let's be real, it's only half a chapter, but it's pushing 7k and the second part is looking to be at least as long. You know how much 10k chapters make me cry, I'd be having kittens at 15k-20k. So… y'know.. smol cliffhanger. But it's fine, it's tiiiiny. Just like.. a ledge-hanger, really. ;) It does mean the chapter count has kicked one higher, though.
> 
> iv. This one has some angsty feels so please source appropriate comfort food as needed. All questions (...most questions) from this chapter will be answered in the next. ;) 
> 
> v. Yeah, you know the drill, gimmmeee your reactions, I live for them, they make me happpyyy, yadda yadda. Or come play gif/ask overdose on tumblr @thewaythatwerust! <33333  
> 

"Well, well, well. Sleeping Beauty is finally awake."

Bucky jolts to a sitting position, wincing at the dull ache in his head. He blinks over in the direction of the voice, to the blurry shape he knows is Loki before rubbing at his bleary eyes with one hand and hopping the other around on the floor for his glasses. "What time is it?" He croaks the question out with a grimace. It tastes like something died in his throat, and he shoves his glasses into place and turns to Loki, frowning again as memories of last night flood him all at once: the beer pong victory, the feel of Steve's arms around him, the almost kiss, and then… oh. Fuck. The Planter Incident.

"It is one-oh-three, which means there are precisely—"

 _"What?"_ Bucky squawks, scrambling to his feet. "There's only an hour until the ceremony?"

Loki stops fidgeting with the emerald lapels of his impeccable black tuxedo dangling from the low-hanging, pendant lights illuminating the elaborate kitchenette to peer at Bucky, interest momentarily eclipsing the annoyance that had been pinching his face tight only a moment before. “So you _aren’t_ just a pretty face. I must confess, I had my doubts. But to be completely honest, I still don't see what all the fuss is about."

 _Fuss?_ Bucky knows Loki's speaking English, but it might as well be the mother tongue of an alien planet for as much as he's understanding. "Right. Um…" He looks around the room… the _empty_ room. "Where's Steve?"

"I imagine he's in his room, getting ready for the ceremony like I should be doing—" Loki turns toward the hall of the suite, toward the sound of rushing water, and bellows, _"—IF MY BROTHER WOULD GET OUT OF THE FUCKING SHOWER!"_

Bucky wraps his arms across his chest. Though it's not as cold as last night, he can't help but wish he'd kept the damn coat… and not only for the added warmth. "When did he leave?"

"Just over half an hour ago, almost as soon as his eyes were fully open. Well, after…" Loki's eyes flick toward the shower before returning and narrowing on Bucky. "It's almost as if he didn't appreciate the view," he adds dryly.

"Uh-huh." Bucky's never been good at deciphering riddles, and he doesn't even try to feign understanding. "But… he didn't wake me?"

"I don't think he wanted to disturb you; you looked so comfortable wrapped in my brother's arms."

"Oh, no, it's not—I was just cold, Thor had a blanket, and me and Steve, uh Steve and I—it's not—it's just…" Bucky huffs, annoyed at his innate ability to trip over his tongue the minute it starts moving. "I'm sure he told you, I'm just his assistant, so…"

For the first time since they'd been introduced, Loki's carefully controlled features shift swiftly into shock. _“You’re his PA?”_

Bucky's brows are the yin to Loki's yang, pulling down in confusion. "You didn't know? Didn't he tell you he was bringing me?"

With visible effort, Loki coaches his face back into a neutral mask. "He simply told me to add a plus one to his RSVP." He hums thoughtfully. "Well, isn't that something? I didn't think he had it in him. I'm impressed. But of course he'd want to bring you all the way out here, it makes perfect sense; two days of _quality time_ before the clock strikes midnight." Innuendo drips from Loki's words, and his green eyes are bright, flashing feverishly.

It makes Bucky's stomach flop over uncomfortably, feeling like Loki knows something he doesn't. "Yeah, so, I really have no idea what—"

"Shower's free!" Thor's booming voice sounds from the bathroom, licorice-scented steam following it out.

 _"Finally,"_ Loki huffs under his breath, losing interest in Bucky completely as he turns to storm toward the bathroom. "You realize _I_ am the one that needs to look my best today, right, dear brother? For once, no one is going to be looking at _you._ ”

There's something about that knowing, mischievous gleam in Loki's eye that doesn't sit well with Bucky, but he's not about to wait around to ask more questions that he's never going to understand the answers to. He slips from the room quietly, the bickering brothers voices cutting off abruptly as the heavy door clicks closed behind him.

It's a straight shot to Steve's room from Loki's suite with only a dozen doors separating them. Still, despite the cold nipping at his skin, Bucky wishes it was longer because before he can decide what the proper etiquette is for greeting someone he'd almost kissed, almost vomited on, and then actually fell asleep on, he's staring at the familiar gold numbers as his knuckles connect with the wood of Steve's door repeatedly.

Usually, he'd be able to blame his total lack of forethought on the vodka from the night before, but the one upside to his latest humiliation is that he'd purged most of the alcohol from his system last night, and aside from the dull ache at the base of his skull, the truly feral taste in his mouth, and a belly full of regrets, he's not feeling that bad.

He frowns as the door remains motionless, running his hands through his hair, tucking the wayward locks behind his ears, trying to smooth the nest into a more presentable mess. Though flying by the seat of his pants usually ends up with him on his ass, Loki had said Steve left only a half-hour before him, so the alpha couldn't have dressed and left for the ceremony already… could he?

If he has… Bucky is screwed.

His bag is inside, along with his phone, and he doesn't have the key. And with his luck, the bitchy beta at reception will be back on shift, and she's not going to help him out of the kindness of her heart. But he can't go and find Steve looking like… well, like he threw up in a pot plant and then spent the night curled up on the floor.

Though he's well aware the universe has his prayers set to instant reject, he can't help sending a silent plea skyward, hoping against hope that Steve is still inside as he raises his hand to knock once more, just in case.

But Bucky's hand hangs in midair before it can connect as the door swings open to reveal Steve, naked save a pair of perfectly tailored navy suit pants, damp hair ruffled into a million different directions of adorable, smelling so strongly of freshly applied vanilla blockers that Bucky can taste them.

And, shit, Bucky knows he should lower his hand—he must look like an idiot—but he's frozen in place. His higher brain functions are no longer in control, and he couldn't be any harder than if Medusa herself had opened the door and turned him to stone.

"Did you come for your bag?" Steve's voice is colder than the air biting at the back of Bucky's neck, and his eyes finally snap up to the alpha's face—to the clenched jaw, narrowed eyes, and furrowed brow.

It's an expression Bucky hasn't seen there before, riding the line between anger and disappointment, and a shiver trembles down his spine and heads straight to his dick, waking all those dormant visions of being pulled over Steve's lap for a well-deserved spanking on the way—because _of course_ his base fantasies would take advantage of his compromised state and kick him while he's down… in a manner of speaking.

 _"Nuuggck—"_ Bucky chokes out before coughing roughly, now acutely aware of what it feels like to almost swallow his own tongue. It's not a pleasant feeling, but it can't hold a candle to the physical pain in his pants. "I—uh, sorry. I didn't mean to sleep so late."

Steve's fingers are latched onto the door so tightly Bucky's a little disappointed to see they don't leave cracks in the wood when they lift. But it's the door swinging closed that finally jolts Bucky into motion, not willing to let it close and keep him on the wrong side of the most mouth-watering thing he's ever seen in real life.

He'd been wrong; he knows now that those abs are definitely _not_ airbrushed, but a small and insistent voice is screaming at him to lick them just to be sure—for science, or for Nat (who is going to demand an excruciatingly detailed play by play of the whole weekend and would chide him for not at least _trying_ ), or for, hell, for _any_ reason that ends up with him trailing his tongue over the enticing valleys carved between rock-hard muscles is one he'll take without question and run with.

But those perfect abs spin out of view as Steve strides back into the room, each step filled with purpose, and Bucky takes the opportunity to slip inside and let the door click closed quietly behind him. He doesn't tear his eyes away from tracking Steve's progress across the room, watching him bend to retrieve the bag from beside the couch.

Bucky catches the tip of his tongue between his teeth and bites down painfully, not confident he won't actually swallow it this time, because _holy fucking shit_. That ass should be on a stamp; with the number of people wanting to get their tongue anywhere near it, it'd be an instant best-seller.

He licks his lips just as Steve turns, and then… then Bucky's gaze is zeroed in on another mouth-watering swell in the _front_ of those navy pants.

Steve's stare is heavy and pointed, drilling into him until it hits liquid shame. Too much lust-hot blood erupts into Bucky's cheeks at being caught looking—intentionally or not—and he jerks his eyes up to chest height, a nice middle ground between what he shouldn't be looking at and the gaze he can't bring himself to meet.

The amazing, glorious, naked chest gets larger as Steve approaches until it's filling Bucky's entire field of vision, and all he can do is trace the swirling patterns of chest hair with hungry eyes. It's just the right amount for him to rake his nails through, rub his cheek on, to let tickle his nose as he nips at a dusky bud before suckling on the flash of pink peeking up in an endless sea of gold.

Bucky would berate himself for the direction his thoughts have taken, but honestly, it's not his fault. With Steve opening the door looking like that, he never stood a chance. Everything about the alpha is the textbook definition of perfect. _Everything._ It's overwhelming, hell, it's borderline annoying, because seriously? How is every single hair follicle on Steve so exquisite? His hair, those damn lashes, that fucking beard, and the chest hair tapering into a dark trail, disappearing into those stupid pants—and god only knows how flawless he is below those…  
  
Steve comes to a standstill two feet away then takes a large step backward so abruptly that Bucky would swear he's got an electric dog fence around him, and Steve had received a shock for getting too close. He wants to step forward to see if Steve takes another step back, but instead, he just shakes his head slowly as Steve holds out his bag to him.

"Oh, no, that's not—" Bucky makes no move to take it. "I came for you."

"For me?" The suspicious tone is enough to tempt Bucky's gaze up, but the weather on Steve's face hasn't changed; nothing but thunderstorms raging across those gorgeous features, set deep in the pinched lines between his brows like they're there to stay.

"I mean… didn't you _want_ a plus one for the ceremony? I thought—but, sorry, maybe I misunderstood. It's just Loki said…"

Steve recoils his hand back to his side, taking Bucky's bag with it. "You talked to Loki? What did he say?"

"Oh, uh, nothing much… or, nothing much I could understand, at least. He kinda likes to talk in riddles, huh?" Bucky tries for a small smile, but he might as well be trying to charm a cactus. "Um, he said that you'd asked to bring a plus one, that's all. So, since Sharon couldn't make it, I am happy to sit with you at the bonding if you like… just so there's no empty seat? If that's—I mean, I can leave right after, though," he adds hastily. "Before the reception so you can… uh, _mingle_.”

"I'm in the bonding party, Bucky; I don't need a date, pity or otherwise. You're not required to attend; I told you you'd have some time off this weekend, and I meant it."

Bucky wrestles down the irrational urge to dissolve into hysterical laughter. _Him_ being _Steve’s_ pity date. "No. I just—no. I'd like to go, if… if that's okay?"

The bag resting by Steve's calf swings as he readjusts the strap in his hand, though Bucky has the distinct impression Steve's weighing up his words more than his luggage. "I thought you didn't like bonding ceremonies. And, shit," Steve sighs, and when he looks up again, his face has softened. "Of course you don't. Given the circumstances, it's completely understandable. If you’d prefer not to attend, that _is_ okay.”

"No, that's not really… I mean, the fact I'll never have one isn't why I don't like them." Bucky bobs his head to the side. “Okay, it’s not the _only_ reason I don’t like them. And it's not that I hate them in the same way I hate corn, you know? It's just, I don't know, they're okay, I guess, they're just not on my list of top three favorite things ever, but you are…"

“But _I_ am what…?” Steve prompts.

"Uh… good company," Bucky blurts. "You are good company. Any day spent with you is never wasted, even part of one." He holds his breath, hoping his words aren't as transparent as his face. It's not like he's lying, just… covering one truth with another; Steve _is_ the only reason he wants to go to the ceremony.

Steve looks back down to the bag in his hand for a long moment, his thumb rubbing over the webbing strap before he nods. "You need a shower," he says finally. Bucky turns his head to the side, trying surreptitiously to sniff himself, but abandons his task the second Steve looks up. "And you need to be quick; all guests are expected to be seated in the next twenty minutes."

"Oh, yeah, sure. No problem," Bucky says brightly, backing toward the vanilla-scented bathroom. "Quickies are my specialty."

Steve arches a single brow, and Bucky opens his mouth before realizing trying to dig himself out of this hole will take more time than he has, and he sighs, presses his lips into a tight seam, turns away from Steve, and flees into the bathroom.

Bucky makes it through the shower in record time—washing everything not within a two-foot radius of his dick, filling his palm with a mix of hotel-supplied shampoo and conditioner before completing both tasks at once, and letting the incredible water pressure wash the slick from his skin, hands-free.

It's only when he steps out of the glass cubicle that his attempt to break the Guinness World Record for the fastest shower ever falls apart, and his world threatens to follow suit. Fortune favors the bold, of course, which explains why he's in here, naked, on the verge of a panic attack while his bag is in the other room with Steve.

After wiping the steam from his lenses with the sleeve of his abandoned shirt, he scowls at his reflection in the mirror, at the towel tucked low around his waist, ending well above the knee. The thin strip of fabric is like a black bar in porn, hiding his dick while somehow drawing attention to it and leaving everything else on full display. He's never felt self-conscious of his lean, toned body… until now. Now, he looks like the _before_ picture to Steve's _after_ for an over-priced personal trainer, and the thought of Steve looking at him like this…

His dry swallow scrapes his throat as he grabs the second towel from the rack and drapes it over his shoulders. It's slightly damp smelling like soap and spice, and he is _not_ going to think of how there's no way it would have wrapped around Steve, how the alpha would have had to rub it all over his body, instead—soaking the water from all those curves and hard angles by hand…

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, gnaws on his bottom lip, and counts to ten. Now is _not_ the time to make a mess; he just got clean.

The second towel hides his pebbled nipples at least, but it looks like he’s _trying_ to hide—which he _is_ , but he doesn’t want to _look_ like he is.

He huffs and slings the damp towel back over the rack. He should just go out there like this. He's being stupid, he knows he is, but it's better than admitting it's not really his body he's trying to hide; he just doesn't want to see Steve's reaction to it. Bucky's happy in his little fantasy bubble, but Steve could pop it in an instant. _Knowing_ Steve's just not into him and actually _seeing_ it are two very different things.

Unhooking the tail end of the towel, he loosens it enough to hike it higher, up under his arms and…

He groans. _Nope._

He spits out a curse at the sight of his cock now on full display under the white fabric. For what the hotel charges for these damn rooms, they could have at least not skimped on the basics. How expensive is towelling? Haven't they heard of bath sheets? This is definitely losing them another star on Yelp; down to one.

Bucky startles at the loud knock on the door, and he repositions the towel back around his waist hastily as he makes his way toward the summons. His intention to just open the door a crack gets lost in translation somewhere between his brain and hand, and suddenly he's holding it open wide enough that Steve could easily slip into the bathroom without even grazing him on the way.

But Steve isn't moving past him into the bathroom; he's not moving at all. Well, no, that's not strictly true; Steve's eyes are taking a journey all their own, crawling down Bucky's body at the pace of a sedated snail, and he can feel the gaze burning into him like a brand. It stops at his navel—right above the much-bemoaned towel—before stormy eyes flick back up to meet his. They're almost as dark as the ridiculously long lashes framing them, and they get impossibly darker still as Steve's nostrils flare and his chest swells.

"You forgot these," Steve grinds out.

It's only then that Bucky realizes three things. One, his bag is hanging from one of Steve's hands, and a coathanger holding the suit he'd borrowed from Clint is dangling from the other. Two, Steve is now fully dressed in a gorgeous navy tuxedo with black satin lapels and somehow looks even more sinful than he had before—maybe because Bucky now knows what that crisp fabric is hiding. And three, if he doesn't find somewhere to sneak off and fuck his fist and relieve some pressure before the sun sets, he may have an aneurysm and die.

He takes the offered items from Steve with a tight smile, eyeing the immaculate suit. "Wow. That held up better than I thought it would," he rasps. "No wrinkles." Steve gives him a strange look, and Bucky fiddles with the coathanger as he tries to decipher it, wincing as the sharp metal hook presses into his palm.

"Eight minutes."

"I'll be ready in seven," Bucky promises. He pushes the door closed with his foot then loops the hanger over the hook on the back of it, drops his bag to the floor, and rummages around inside it. He finds his Omegawear underwear—scent-blocking, absorbent fabric seems like the right choice for today of all days—his toothbrush, his blocker pill, and his contacts, gathering them up before dropping his glasses inside and zipping the bag closed again.

He keeps count in his head—one minute to ditch the towel and pull on his boxer briefs and socks, three minutes to brush his teeth and hair, pull the still-damp locks into a band before popping his contacts in, and swallowing his pill with a mouthful of water straight from the tap. It leaves him three more to get into the suit, but he wastes a good thirty seconds just holding the sleeve in his hand, staring at it, confused.

It's warm.

Warm and impeccable. Steve must have… but no, he wouldn't. Bucky runs his fingers over the perfect fabric. But there's no other explanation; Steve must have ironed his suit.

The thought leaves him reeling. Bucky had learned quickly in life that people generally fall into one of two categories—givers or takers. Whether down to his omega nature or just personality type, he definitely falls into the former, finding it hard to take so much as a compliment. He honestly can't remember when someone last did something so thoughtful for him without even being asked. Of course, through a critical lens, it could be viewed as a self-serving gesture, wanting Bucky to look good knowing his appearance would, without doubt, reflect onto Steve. Still, the unexpected kindness knocks him wholly off-balance, and he blinks blankly at the suit for another thirty seconds until Steve's voice sounds through the door.

"Two minutes."

"Nearly ready!" Bucky squeaks, rushing to pull on the suit. By his count, he has thirty seconds to spare by the time he flings the door open. "Sorry, I'm ninety-nine percent ready, I swear. I just, uh, need a bit of help with this." He holds up the tie he'd picked out to go with the borrowed charcoal suit. It's cerulean, though he resolutely maintains he chose it because of the bright contrast it provides and not at all because it is almost the exact shade of Steve's eyes in sunlight.

It isn't a match now, though, they're doing their stormy thing again, flashing dark and dangerously, and Bucky wonders nervously if the forecast for the alpha's face is going to hold all day. He gets the impression he's salt in a wound, seemingly irritating Steve at every turn, and yet, he has no idea why.

Despite the request, Steve hasn't moved, is still just staring at him, and Bucky fidgets with the tie nervously. "I, uh, sorry. I've only worn one of these a few times before, and I'm not exactly great at it. It's kind of like origami to me. Can you—would you mind?"

Without a word, Steve stalks toward him, and Bucky is proud he manages to hold his ground without so much as a shiver—but he _is_ very grateful for the absorbent underwear. Large hands take the tie from his and lift it, looping it around his neck.

Steve is so close, close enough for Bucky to feel the charge rolling from his impressive, imposing frame, filling the shared space between them. It's enough to make him achingly hard again, and the tugging around his neck isn't helping.

Steve takes his time, sliding and pulling, folding the strip of fabric over itself, all without a word.

Awkward lulls in conversation have always been Bucky's kryptonite, and Steve's shuttered expression and silence presses into Bucky's chest, building and _building_ until it's suffocating him, until finally, he breaks.

"Sorry, I know I probably don't scrub up as nicely as Sharon; the suit's a little big, but I had to borrow this from Clint," Bucky babbles, rushing to fill the dead air. "Not that this _is_ Clint's, he um, borrowed it from the costume department on his latest film, which, technically, I don't think he's supposed to do, so don't tell anyone, but it's just, the only suit I own would have people asking me for drinks all night thinking I was a waiter, so it was either that or I borrow one of his, and that would have been hilarious, right? I might as well have borrowed one of yours and shown up looking like a pup playing dress up in daddy's clothes."

Bucky gasps out a strangled sound as the tie knot suddenly jerks into place hard against his throat. It's too tight, making his body work even harder to draw air into his burning lungs. Steve's eyes lock on to Bucky's, and he's sure that even without the fabric crushing against his neck, he wouldn't be able to breathe with Steve looking at him like _that_ … like he wants to _consume_ him.

Something unfurls deep within Bucky, something he's never felt before, warm and thick and heavy, spreading from his chest lazily into his limbs, _achingly_ slow and delicious; a heady contrast to the rapid beating of his heart.

Warm fingers grip his chin firmly, tilting his head up. It makes heat pool in his groin, makes his head foggy and his cock leak and he whimpers as a thick finger slides down the column of his throat, dragging over his Adam's apple slowly to slot in between skin and fabric. It stays there, resting against his neck for an eternity before Steve tugs harshly, jerking Bucky forward and loosening the chokehold around his neck.

He only stops himself from colliding with Steve's chest with hands reaching out to grasp at Steve's biceps.

"Feel good?" Steve's low voice is a sinful rumble, and god, Bucky can imagine those words in that voice under different circumstances, and his brain blanks completely. "Bucky?" Steve husks out again after a minute with no response. "Is it too tight?"

Bucky can't speak; he's not sure he's even breathing. And, oh, lack of oxygen would explain the strange floaty feeling in his brain. He jerks his head to the side and back, his best approximation of a 'no,' his fingers digging a little deeper into Steve's arms.

"Good." Steve's hands lift from Bucky's throat before lowering slowly to his sides, and Bucky, with great effort, does the same, but he can still feel the heat of Steve's body tingling in his palms. "Do you have the gift?"

Bucky stares stupidly at Steve, waiting for his brain to find some sense in the question.

"The bonding gift?" Steve prompts.

"Oh! Yeah, of course." On wobbly legs that feel like they're going to give out under him at any second, Bucky makes his way to the bathroom, then sinks his haunches to his heels and unzips his bag. He'd tucked the small box—wrapped in shimmering silver paper embossed with tiny gold stars—into an inner pocket to make sure it survived the trip in one piece. Fiddling with the ribbon of the hand-curled bow as he rises, anxiety leeches into his belly. He'd made a mess of his first task; if he's managed to bungle this one too, the crushing self-doubt is going to trigger a full-scale meltdown.

Hoping for the best and expecting the worst, he pushes to his feet and returns to Steve. He holds the gift out, palm up, and thrills in the way Steve's fingers brush over his skin, lingering a moment before taking the box.

"What did we get them?" A small smile—the first of the day—tugs at Steve's lips as he turns the gift around in his hands, examining Bucky's handiwork from every angle.

Bucky tries not to let that ' _we'_ affect him but fails miserably. "Uh, it's an ornamental sculpture, a golden helmet with curved horns…"

"A helmet?"

"Or, maybe a type of crown?" Bucky shuffles on his feet, feeling the first wave of panic lapping at the base of his spine. "I don't know to be honest, but it's something to do with the god of fertility."

"Fertility?" A crease appears between Steve's brows. "Darcy's a beta. She can't have pups."

"I know, but it _was_ on their registry," Bucky says quickly. "I thought, maybe… well, I thought her being a beta is exactly _why_ it was there. Like maybe they're planning to adopt or get a surrogate, and maybe it's just a little symbol of hope or a talisman or a reminder that the world is bigger than us, and some things are out of our control, but we need to be brave and have faith that what's meant to be will somehow find a way."

There's something to be said for being really _seen_ by Steve Rogers; Bucky's never experienced anything like it. He wants to crumble under the weight of it, wants to straighten his shoulders and preen and be worthy of it, wants to have Steve look at him like this _forever._

"Be brave, hm?" The anger darkening Steve's eyes is gone, the blue hues now lit up with something intense and raw, a million thoughts streaking through them like shooting stars, too fast for Bucky to catch. "It's a very thoughtful choice, Bucky. I'm sure they will love it. Thank you."

Steve extends his free hand in the small space between them, palm up, and Bucky doesn't question it, doesn't think, just slips his hand into Steve's. Large fingers thread through his and Bucky sighs into the touch.

"Do you need anything else before we go down?"

The damp hair of Bucky's ponytail tickles over his nape as he shakes his head. No, everything he needs is right here, holding his hand, looking down at him like… like he's the axis of Steve's whole universe.

Without a word, Steve guides him from the room, somehow managing to open and hold the door for Bucky and usher him through all without releasing his hand or dropping the gift.

Tonight or ten years from now, Bucky knows he won't remember the walk to the elevator, won't remember the faces of the people who pushed into the small car on the second floor, won't remember what the woman who took the box from Steve's hand said that had made Steve thank her before guiding him toward the rows of white chairs on the right side of a rose petal-strewn aisle. No, the only thing seared into his memory is the feel of Steve's warmth soaking into his palm and a thumb sweeping gently over his skin.

"I have to go and fulfill my best man duties now," Steve murmurs. "I wish I could sit with you, but without a brother buffer, this bonding is likely to turn into a brawl."

"Mhm." Bucky manages, focus split between those warm ocean eyes and the fingers curling between his.

"Once the ceremony is over, I'll need to leave for photographs. Just follow the crowd to the reception." Steve squeezes Bucky's hand before releasing it. "All the tables have place cards with names; find yours, and I'll find you as soon as I'm back."

The loss of physical connection breaks the spell ensnaring Bucky's mind, and he smiles crookedly up at Steve. "I _have_ been to a bonding before, I know how it works. It's okay; I'll be okay."

A real, honest-to-god smile curves Steve's lips before he leans close, hot breath ghosting over Bucky's ear, sending another shiver curling down his spine. "Just be a good boy and try not to trip while I'm not around to catch you, okay, Buck?"

Bucky whimpers, but thankfully his locked knees don't give out until after Steve has already turned away and is striding up the aisle, heading for the raised platform where Loki and Thor and two brunette omegas are waiting. He sinks onto the hard chair, clenches his hands into fists, and wills his fluttering heart to slow. After less than a minute, he realizes it's a lost cause; Steve's words might as well have been an adrenaline shot straight to his heart, so he opts for distraction over control.

He lets his gaze drift around the clearing, flitting from the white silk chiffon draped over high, thin branches and cinched to willowy trunks perfectly spaced down the length of the aisle, to the pretty bouquets adorning ornamental gold stands positioned between them—overflowing with ivory flowers and fresh greenery, all encircling a center crimson rose. The cool wind makes both fabric and foliage dance to the soft strains of a instrumental tune Bucky doesn't recognize. There's an ethereal kind of beauty to the setting, the sense of a stolen moment in time, hidden from the rest of the world, the grove of trees surrounding them only heightening the illusion.

All in muted, sophisticated colors, the hundred-odd guests rise from the rows of white chairs as the music shifts smoothly into deep resonating strings and tinkling piano keys. Bucky straightens quickly, twisting in time to see Darcy take her first step down the flower-adorned path.

The garnet lace, off-the-shoulder gown with its long sleeves and sweeping train is stunning, clinging to her gorgeous curves, showing delicate peeks of skin between the intricate fabric. She looks like a goddess with her perfectly curled hair falling in waves over her left shoulder, a dark waterfall contrasting and complementing her milky skin and ruby lips.

Bucky looks to the dais, smiling at the completely captivated look arresting Loki's face, eyes only for Darcy. However, Bucky can't stop _his_ eyes drifting to the right, past Thor to find Steve.

It feels strangely taboo to let his gaze linger on Steve when all others, including Steve's, are fixed elsewhere, but he can't help himself. The diffused light filtering through the dark clouds overhead paints Steve's skin like a master artist, accentuating the strong jaw and brow, the sharp cheekbones, kissing that imperfect nose, and playing up the amber hues in his beard. It's a study in human perfection and it makes Bucky's heart _ache_.

The middle-aged omega beside Bucky sniffs delicately, and he jerks his attention back to Darcy as she takes her final step up onto the low platform and places her hands in Loki's.

Bucky tunes out the celebrant as he waxes poetic about the sanctity of bonding, a familiar hollowness spreading through his chest. It had been too long since he'd attended a ceremony; he'd forgotten how completely alone and out of place they made him feel, an unwanted intruder, an _imposter._ Half of him wants to try and slip discreetly from his chair and disappear into the trees, away from the sea of people who have no idea the fortune with which life has favored them.

But Loki's trembling voice echoing the celebrant's vows soothes the wrinkles of anxiety from Bucky's chest—this has always been his favorite part.

"From this day forward, to me, you are precious, you are pack. I promise myself to you with this unbreakable bond, and pledge to provide for you and protect you, honor, cherish, and love only you with every breath until my heart beats its last."

Loki brushes a few stray strands of hair off pale skin before bending and pressing his mouth to Darcy's neck. Bucky leans forward intently, pitching a little to the left to see around the large alpha seated in front of him. He can't see Loki biting into Darcy's bonding gland but knows when it happens from Darcy's sharp gasp, her hands coming to tangle in Loki's dark hair. Clear fluid, glistening in the soft light, trickles down Darcy's neck toward the lace when Loki straightens.

The sweet scent of Honeysuckle blooms into the air, tickling Bucky's nose as Darcy repeats the vows before her hands trail up Loki's chest. He bends slightly, allowing her to reach the gland without pressing up on her toes, and growls, low and hungry when she latches on to his neck.

The cold wind catches Loki's scent as it spills over his skin. It's the antithesis of his brother's; flooding the air with earthy notes of lush moss and damp soil and sprigs of mint. The aroma is strangely calming—a contrast to Loki's chaotic personality—but in such a concentrated dose, the intoxicating lure of aroused alpha pheromones makes Bucky squirm in his seat.

This is always both the best and worst moment of bondings; incredibly beautiful but much too intimate for even the closest friends, and here witnessing that of a couple he barely knows, the uncomfortable voyeurism is heightened to damn near intolerable.

He has no idea what it feels like to be bonded, of course, has never even experienced the pleasure of a promise bite, and he suspects he never will, but to share something so profound and primal, it must be nothing less than pure ecstasy. He can understand the desire to share that with loved ones, but a hundred people or more? Bucky shudders at the thought of that many people's attention fixed on him during a moment of intimate pleasure.

But when Darcy draws back, her previously matte red lips shine in the light as they curve up prettily, and from the look on her face, the absolute adoration as she stares up at Loki, Bucky knows a million people could surround her and it wouldn't matter, her whole world in this moment consists only of two.

"Now, repeat after me," the celebrant's voice rings loud through the clearing.

"I take your scent, heart, and soul—"

The chorus of Loki and Darcy's words are sure and true as they run their fingers over their own bonding glands, coating them in the clear fluid.

"—and give mine in return—"

The two voices merge again as slick fingers lift from their own necks and press gently to their mates, taking each other's scent. Darcy giggles, and a titter ripples through the crowd, and someone toward the front blows their nose noisily.

"From this day forward, we are one; we are bonded."

Loki and Darcy clasp hands, repeating the final vow solemnly, and even from his seat in the back row, Bucky can see the darkening set of matched bite marks, turning almost black as the scents mix and react. When the punctures heal, he knows the bonds will settle to a dark grey but never fade; a permanent oath etched into skin, a celebration and proclamation of being claimed—of finding a mate.

…A _soulmate_.

Pain slams into Bucky so sharp and deep he presses a palm flat to his chest, expecting to feel his heart either hammering against his ribs uncontrollably or stopped completely, but it rises to his hand and falls, again and again, strong and steady. Fighting the shards of panic slicing into him, he works to pull air into his lungs, taking stuttered breaths in through his nose.

The world blurs around him, slipping out of focus as the past rushes to swallow him whole, and suddenly he's a broken-hearted kid sobbing into a tear-stained pillow as his ma's hand strokes through his hair, whispering soft but empty promises, trying in vain to console him.

Bucky curls his fingers down against his thighs, attempting to press blunt nails through the unyielding fabric of his suit pants and failing, settling for digging his fingertips deep instead. His heart is dancing in his chest, keeping a tempo he can't hope to hold for long without it leading him straight into unconsciousness, and he works to take slow, calming breaths.

He hasn't thought about bonding in years because… well, there's been no need; he's not found someone he'd give his heart to, much less his soul.

Until…

His clenched jaw goes slack as visions of being swept into Steve's arms seize his mind, imagining the feel of teeth slicing through skin, and tasting his own scent on those perfect lips as Steve seals the promise of forever. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, but the images just keep rolling through him—lazy days spent curled around each other, trailing his fingers over the marks of his own teeth decorating Steve's neck, fantasies of falling asleep to the lullaby of Steve's heartbeat under his ear and waking wrapped in those strong arms every morning.

Bucky's hazy world sharpens as his gaze snaps up to the dais, seeking out those bright blue eyes, startling when he finds them already fixed on him.

The intense stare pins him to his chair and knocks the air from his lungs. His skin burns hot in the cold air whispering of a building storm, but whatever nature has in store cannot compare to the hurricane already raging inside him as he holds Steve's gaze.

_Oh, no._

The link is lost as people push to their feet, and the sound of shouting and clapping registers dully over the pounding of blood in his ears, but Bucky can't move, sitting dazed in his chair as velvet petals rain down around him.

 _Oh, god._ He's an idiot, a goddamn fool. He hadn't even noticed it. How could he have _not_ noticed it?

"Bucky?"

Bucky claws his way out of himself to find Steve crouched beside him, worried eyes searching his face.

"Huh? Yeah? What are you doing here?" Bucky blinks more of the world into focus, finding people filing out of the chairs and heading back toward the hotel, though some have remained behind, standing in small groups nearby and throwing openly curious looks their way. "Aren't you supposed to be doing the photo thing?"

Steve's large hands come to rest on Bucky's, and he startles at the heat of them, only realizing that _his_ are freezing at the touch.

"I am, but I had to check you're okay; you look…" Steve trails off. _”Are_ you okay?”

Bucky jumps to his feet, the abrupt movement jolting Steve's hands from his. Blood floods his cheeks. Jesus, no wonder people are looking at him; he's ruining the itinerary that's no doubt been excruciatingly planned down to the last second, just because he's having an impromptu romantic revelation. His timing has always been impeccable.

"No, sorry, I'm good, I'm sorry," Bucky blurts, watching Steve straighten.

That beautiful face remains unconvinced. "Are you sure? If something's wrong…"

"No, no, I just…" Bucky gestures around him vaguely, "the, uh, ceremony, you know? I kinda… but I'm good now, everything's okay, I'm okay," he babbles with a smile that should get him an Oscar nomination.

Steve's eyes narrow, and for a second, Bucky thinks he's going to protest, but then he gives a sharp nod. "Okay. I'll be back soon if you're sure?"

"Uh-huh, yep, super sure."

Bucky watches Steve turn and walk away, watches him twist back once before he's swallowed up in the crowd of guests, now all moving toward the reception. Bucky moves with them mindlessly, a zombie following the hoard, unable to focus on anything but the flare of enlightenment burning brightly inside him.

Guilt bubbles in his belly, but he ignores it, rubbing his arms as he slips through the double doors into the reception hall. He hadn't lied, not really; he _is_ okay… or he _will be_ —if he can just ignore the realization that he's falling hopelessly in love with Steve Rogers.


	10. The Tipping Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's standing on the cusp of something dangerous, the tipping point of fantasies becoming reality, and all at once, it's so terrifying he can't move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Please gather whatever snacks/light refreshments/blankets/etc that you require to settle in. This is a (for me, at least) long one. But, please do not expect the one bed just yet, the 10k chapter became closer to 20k and I had to split it. ..again. Ehh, idek. A LOT HAPPENS, OKAY?!
> 
> ii. Feel free to grumble/boo/hiss/squeal/etc etc at me in the comments like always. You know how I get with comments. <333
> 
> iii. Songs that feature in this chapter. The first dance: [Dylan Brady - Fallin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v-BaHzNyio0) and ...the other one: [Ed Sheeran - Kiss Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RkH5cJOBDk0)

Bucky pops the barely bite-sized _mini_ mini quiche into his mouth, chewing slowly as he looks around the reception hall for the hundredth time in the past hour. 

It's the same red, white, and green color scheme as the bonding, same sheer chiffon draping from the ceiling and affixed to walls dripping with shimmering fairy lights. The room is dark for so early in the afternoon; the artificial mood lighting only augmented by the single large window behind the bar, facing out into the open wilderness beyond, dimmed by the dark clouds hanging low on the horizon.

The other guests are all mingling—hovering around the bar and clustered around better tables. A few brave souls are even scattered across the dance floor, moving hesitantly to music flowing from hidden speakers, the lack of alcohol showing in their self-conscious steps. But Bucky doesn't recognize any of them, and his brain is far too overtaxed to even think about dredging up the energy required to start a conversation with a total stranger.

His stomach growls reproachfully after he swallows his mouthful, protesting the meager offerings after ignoring it all day. But that had been his second and last assigned pre-party snack, so until meals are served, his body is just going to have to be patient… which, if the loud rumbling sounding from it again now is any indication, is a big ask.

He fills his glass with cold water from the expensive-looking crystal jug, then drains it quickly. But his effort to trick his stomach into thinking it's fuller than it is falls flat, and he eyes the four other full plates positioned in front of empty chairs hungrily. He drums his fingers on the ivory tablecloth and pushes a frustrated sigh over his lips. This is what his life has come to; seriously considering swiping tiny food from people already suffering the indignity of being assigned the worst seating at the reception—the singles table.

In a room brimming with round tables featuring paired off six place settings, the one reserved for singles is tucked away at the back of the room—a five-chaired offering, assuring that even if new pairs are forged under the intoxicating mix of pheromones and free drinks, at least one single will remain that way. And it doesn't take a genius to figure out who that one would be.

But that's fine; Bucky isn't here to hook up, and he doesn't need any more complications tonight; the inopportune revelation that he's falling in love with Steve is as much as he can handle. Though, even after an hour of trying to come to grips with the awareness while fiddling with the prongs of his fork, he's not sure he's any closer to actually getting a handle on it.

He's so stupid. How could he have not realized? Steve is the first thing on his mind in the morning and the last word on his lips at night—a broken cry of pleasure before he surrenders to sleep and drifts into dreams filled with those ocean eyes.

Steve makes him feel warm and comforted, like chicken soup when he's sick, or his favorite blanket he snuggles up under on rainy days. But those things are simple, and Steve… is not. He is the perfect guy—funny and sweet, kind and smart, thoughtful and generous—but unfortunately, he's also physical perfection and famous to boot, which means he'll never be Bucky's. The alpha has a world of options, and Bucky is slaving under no illusion that a nobody six ends up with a famous twelve out of ten somebody.

Why couldn't he just keep his crush a crush? A fantasy to tickle his mind… sometimes while he tickles other things. Of course he had to go and ruin it. How the hell is he supposed to act normal around Steve now? And, oh, god—if Sharon hated him before, she's going to have kittens the next time she sees them together, what with the cartoon birds chirping and flying around the giant, glittery hearts circling his head and dancing in his eyes.

He knows what is waiting for him at the end of this road he's started down, and he has no one but himself to blame. As if agreeing with his assessment, his stomach grumbles again, and he doesn't even try and mute the groan that reverberates over the back of his tongue as he slumps back against his chair.

"Hungry?"

Bucky's mouth drops open as Steve slides into an empty chair, dirty-blond windswept hair falling onto his forehead as those perfect teeth dazzle brighter than the curtain of LEDs behind him.

 _"Famished,"_ Bucky breathes out, not for a second talking about the food. "Photos go okay?"

Steve nods, eyes dropping to Bucky's mouth. "Had to cut it short; the incoming storm is the gift that keeps giving. I think they got some good ones, though. Sorry, can I just—"

What Steve was about to ask permission for Bucky isn't sure, but suddenly a thumb is brushing across his lower lip, and his eyes are falling closed as the feather-light touch over sensitive skin makes him tremble and clench down in his uncomfortable chair.

"You had some crumbs," Steve murmurs as the gentle touch lifts.

Bucky's eyes fly open, finding Steve's hand back on the table, long fingers lacing between their kin casually like they hadn't just been making Bucky's dick harder than his wooden seat two seconds ago.

It takes a moment for his lungs to remember how to work, finally emptying on a soft whimper, blowing over the path Steve had just traced across his lips. But in some small show of mercy, the universe chooses that exact moment to rumble his stomach again, drowning out the greater embarrassment.

Bucky licks his lips, disappointment reaching epic levels when he can't taste Steve on them. "Sorry, I don't think my stomach was satisfied with the one-bite wonders," he says apologetically.

"Bucky, is that all you've had all day?"

"Oh, well, yeah. With the whole sleeping late thing and then the shower…" Bucky clears his throat before shrugging sheepishly.

Something akin to frustration—annoyance? disappointment?—pinches Steve's face before he stands abruptly and turns away without a second look.

The twisting in Bucky's belly has nothing to do with the lack of food as he watches Steve stride across the room. Uncertainty nibbles at him. Is he meant to follow or stay? Is Steve even coming back? Did he say something wrong?

When Steve slips through a door with a black and white 'keep out' sign affixed to it, Bucky almost breaks out in hives, and he rubs his palms over his thighs agitatedly, looking around the room to see if anyone else had noticed the blatant disregard for signage. But true to human nature, everyone is more concerned with themselves, somehow not noticing the hulking mass of perfection that had slipped into the area reserved for waitstaff.

Two agonizing, sweat-inducing minutes later, Steve emerges from that same door, a plate in hand.

Bucky tries not to squirm in his ever-dampening boxer-briefs watching those powerful muscles move effortlessly beneath navy fabric. His hunger for the treats on the plate is eclipsed by a ravaging thirst and he swallows against the bone-dry desert of his throat. He doesn't risk reaching for the water though; unable to take his eyes off the actual God walking toward him, he knows he'll just knock the jug over, spill water across the table, and it'll drip onto his pants. And he does not want Steve's attention on his pants right now.

His brain calls bullshit immediately; he'd give every dollar in his bank account to have Steve's attention on what's _inside_ them, and, great, now he's picturing Steve as a cheap alpha-for-hire and _fuck_.

Steve lifts the chair he'd been sitting in earlier with his free hand and places it down again closer to Bucky.

Much, _much_ closer.

Steve's knees brush Bucky's as he steps into the small space left between them, then sinks into the vacant chair. As he adjusts on the seat, moving forward, those knees slide up the outer length of Bucky's thighs, bracketing them. Caging him in.

The small white plate in his hand clinks gently against Bucky's empty one as Steve sets it down. The bacon and egg-scented steam filling the air makes Bucky's mouth water and coaxes another low growl from his stomach.

Steeling himself against the impulse to just grab the five mini pastries from the plate in one hand and shove them into his mouth, Bucky pitches forward until he's an inch from Steve's face. _"You can't steal food from the kitchen,"_ he whispers, scandalized.

That familiar, bemused smile is back on Steve's perfect lips. "I didn't steal it; I asked for it very nicely. Now eat."

Bucky groans. No, _of course_ Steve had asked. He was probably a boy scout, and, to be fair, all he would have to do is waltz into the kitchen, bat his ridiculous lashes and ask for something with that dazzling smile, and people would probably be tripping over themselves to get it for him. Bucky can't fault them; God knows he'd do the same—although he'd _actually_ be tripping over himself.

Still…

"But those are for _everyone._ I'm sure there's a carefully calculated total based on the number of guests that RSVP'd and…" His eyes drop back to the plate, to the tiny but tempting morsels on it, and he licks his lips before turning back to Steve. "...and stuff." He shakes his head. "I've already ruined the buck's night and the ceremony, I'm not going for a trifecta. It's okay, I can wait until they serve food… uh, I mean, they _are_ going to be serving food, right?"

"Mhm," Steve hums. "In little over an hour."

"Oh, that's… that's not bad," Bucky manages, pleased he doesn't sound as devastated as he feels. An hour? Sixty minutes. That's not _not_ bad, that's _very_ bad; soon, the ambient noise isn't going to drown out the sounds of his disapproving belly. But… there _has_ to be something he can chew on around here somewhere. He leans to the right as covertly as he can manage, until he can see around Steve to the bar, searching between the human blockades for pretzels or nuts or high-end snacks that one offers at bondings, groaning inwardly when he finds none.

"Open up."

Something solid and hot nudges Bucky's lips, and his eyes dart back to Steve's before dropping low, finding the source of the heat against his mouth: the mini quiche held carefully between Steve's thumb and index finger.

Bucky's lips part on a small, surprised gasp and Steve presses the food forward gently, the scalloped edges of the tart shell pushing past the corners of his mouth as his jaw drops open enough to allow it entry. Ocean eyes are pulling him under again, sending his head spinning as thick fingers slip past his lips, rubbing over the soft insides of his mouth. They deposit the pastry onto his tongue before dragging back out slowly, leaving a wet trail on his lips.

The small sound escaping Bucky's still-open mouth is part whimper, part moan as he sits, achingly hard, staring at Steve, his mouth full of oven-warm appetizer and head full of fantasies of Steve feeding him something else entirely.

Steve's fingers are gentle but firm as they press under his chin, urging it up, making his mouth close. "You need to eat."

As if on autopilot—or more likely, following the gentle direction without thought or question—Bucky's jaw starts working, crushing the quiche before swallowing it thickly.

"Good boy," Steve husks out, low and deep.

The soft praise sends a flash of heat to Bucky's groin, making him twitch involuntarily in his seat. For once, though, the blood heating his cheeks isn't borne of embarrassment but desire; he's never been so fucking turned on in his life (which after the amount of time spent in Steve's company these past weeks is saying something). The throbbing in his dick is _painful_ , the act of Steve hand-feeding him taking him from zero to sixty-seconds away from blowing his load untouched in record time.

Steve reaches down to the plate, picks up another little pastry, and lifts it to Bucky's lips. "You're going to be good and eat all of these for me, aren't you, Buck?"

"Y-yes, sir." Bucky doesn't even have time to correct his slip of the tongue—Steve's sharp inhale has him forgetting how to form words completely.

Crumbs fall, sprinkling over his chin as the thin pastry shell cracks and breaks apart in Steve's fingers. Dark eyes disappear as eyelids shutter closed, and the ruined appetizer rains down over Bucky's thighs, forgotten.

"Steve…" Bucky's strangled whisper is enough to tempt those lids up again, and he can't stop the soft moan punching from his chest.

Steve's stare is pure fire and Bucky might as well be made of gasoline. His whole body erupts in flames, the nerve endings in every single inch of skin sparking at once, tingling and _burning_ as his dick pulses and leaks, trying desperately to relieve some pressure.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present the newly bonded mates: Loki and Darcy Odinson."

Bucky startles, the raucous applause and whistling ringing in his ears reminding him that no, he's not in some private bubble with Steve. Luckily everyone else is paying them no attention—on their feet, turned toward the entrance. Bucky tries to jump up, but his legs knock against Steve's and he stumbles. Unfolding from his own chair with much more grace, Steve catches Bucky's arm and steadies him, and because he had clearly done something wrong in a past life, the hand stays there, funneling heat into his already flushed body.

He tries to concentrate on the couple as they sweep into the room, hand in hand, and make their way to the dance floor as it clears, but ninety-nine percent of his brain is zeroed in on the feel of Steve's thumb dancing across his arm, making the fabric over skin rub distractingly.

"If everyone will please take your seats, Loki and Darcy will now have their first dance."

Bucky is both relieved and at a loss when Steve releases him, feeling dangerously unmoored.

"Eat," Steve says with a nod toward the plate. "Try and enjoy yourself. I'll be back soon." Without waiting for a reply he's turning away, disappearing into the crowd of people moving as one to find their seats.

Bucky sinks into his own gratefully before following Steve's orders: picking up a quiche and sliding it into his mouth, trying to recreate the feel of Steve feeding him as people take their places at the empty table. It's a wasted effort; he can no more imagine his hand as Steve's when wrapped around a pastry shell than he can when it's wrapped around his dick.

A pretty brunette drags the chair beside him back to its default position and slides into it just as Bucky polishes off the remaining appetizers in quick succession. A small measure of pride ripples through him at doing as he's told, imagining that deep voice dripping praises and the slow slide of a warm thumb brushing over his lips again.

The gentle tinkling of piano keys and the soft strumming of guitar strings draws his attention away from the throbbing in his pants, and he swivels on his seat just in time to see Loki gathering Darcy into his arms on the now otherwise deserted dance floor.

_~~♫ You do it for me, sometimes you don't even know you knock me off my feet ♫~~  
_

Bucky's gaze moves away from the center of everyone's attention, drifting up to the long table at the head of the room, to the one person rapidly becoming the center of his entire world. His heart jumps to his throat when he finds those blue eyes already fixed on him. He holds Steve's gaze and his breath as all the words in his heart come spilling from the speakers.

_~~♫ Fall into my kiss, fall into my arms, Fall onto my lips, fall into my heart ♫~~_  
_~~♫ 'Cause I've fallen fast, and I've fallen hard, I've fallen too far ♫~~_

Bucky is lost, adrift in a reverie of what-ifs, gossamer impossibilities that don't feel so crazy with Steve's steady gaze holding his, and all at once, Bucky can see his whole future in those cerulean eyes.

The rest of the world fades away and time ceases to exist, stretching thin and speeding up simultaneously, losing all meaning as the song passes in a heartbeat—Bucky never once looking away.

"And now, the best men and maids of honor will join the couple on the dance floor."

The announcement jolts him from his musings and breaks the connection as Steve stands and walks to a petite brunette waiting at the end of the table. From the corner of his eye, he can see Thor follow Steve's lead, heading toward the second young woman in a matching strapless emerald gown.

Jealousy burns Bucky's throat as Steve sweeps the raven-haired omega into his arms, taking a small hand in one of his held aloft as the other encircles her back as a new song swells into the room.

The sheer intensity of the envy tearing through Bucky startles him, and he drops his gaze to the floor. It's not like he hasn't seen Steve embracing someone else. Hell, he's seen Sharon slobbering all over him like an excited mastiff, but somehow, today it just feels… _different._

This can't all be in his head… it _can't_ be. Steve's lingering touches, the intense looks, the innuendos, the almost kiss last night… It has to mean _something._

But that would mean the world has gone mad and somehow, in some way Steve is.. is _attracted_ … to _him._ His cheeks burn bright at the thought. It seems foolish, impractical now he's out of the hypnotic pull of Steve's gaze, left alone to stew in his thoughts while the alpha of his dreams has another omega in his arms. But it can't be more than that. If Steve were feeling for him what he is feeling for Steve, Steve would have said something.

"Bucky?"

"Huh?" Bucky's head jerks up to find Thor grinning down at him. "Oh, sorry... um, aren't you supposed to be dancing?"

He looks to the dance floor to find it now packed near capacity, the slow strains of romantic music replaced with an upbeat tune… and Steve nowhere in sight. And how the hell had he missed that?

“With some luck, I will be again when you say yes.”

Bucky turns his face back to Thor distractedly, though his eyes continue to search for another blond alpha. “Hmm? Say yes to what?”

“Yes to dancing with me, of course.”

 _That_ gets Bucky’s attention. Thor's hand is outstretched like the leading man in a regency era film, an expectant look on his face. “Oh, that’s kind of you, but uh, I’m—I should probably just wait for Steve.”

“He’s been whisked away by my brother for his latest drama, and only the gods know how long that’ll take. He wouldn’t want you sitting here missing out on all the fun.”

 _'Try and enjoy yourself.’_ Steve’s words rise in the back of Bucky's mind, but somehow, Bucky isn’t sure this is what he had meant. “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” he says finally. “I’m not a good dancer, but thank you. I’m sure anyone else here would be happy to be your partner though.”

With more elegance than Bucky would expect possible from such a large body, Thor sinks to a squat in front of him, bringing their eye lines just about level.

“I don’t want anyone else.” Large hands land on Bucky’s knees and he stills their agitated bouncing immediately, only now realizing he’s practically vibrating in his seat. “You look like you could use an outlet for all this energy. Honor me with one dance, and if you don’t feel better by the end, I’ll escort you back here and sit awhile with you instead.”

The golden crumbs still clinging to the dark grey of his suit pants catch Bucky's eye, and he brushes them off absently. The jealousy had stolen some of his desire, and what still remains is hidden by the too-big trousers. The pressure of his teeth gnawing at his lower lip helps ground him a little, finding the truth in Thor’s words. The encounter with Steve had lit him up inside, set off a chain reaction, and with no pressure release valve, he’s likely to blow _something_ when he’s in the alpha’s presence again. Unless...

Unable to deny the merit of the suggestion, he nods slowly. What harm could it do? “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Thor beams at him and rises swiftly to his feet, catching Bucky’s hand on the way up and pulling him to his own. _“Wonderful.”_

Bucky allows himself to be pulled through the human obstacle course, tethered to Thor’s hand, trailing along behind him. Thor’s size is an asset in the crowded room, making people part for him, letting Bucky just slip through behind. This would come in handy in real life. He wonders idly if he could get the massive alpha to come shopping with him, he'd make it through the aisles in half the time, or, oh, he'd be amazing to take to Black Friday sales.

They come to a stop at the bar, and Bucky runs through their conversation in his head, frowning. “I thought we were going to dance?”

“We are, but first, I think you need a little liquid relaxation. You were a lot less stressed last night after the first round of Beer Pong,” Thor says easily before ordering two shots of vodka from the professionally disinterested beta bartender.

“Things were simpler last night,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

“In which way?”

 _Because I wasn’t falling in love with my boss._ “All of them.”

“You need to stop worrying so much; you’re going to give yourself an ulcer.”

“Great. Something else to worry about,” Bucky retorts.

Thor’s booming laugh fills the large reception hall, and more than a few curious gazes are thrown their way. But Thor doesn’t seem to notice, his focus wholly on the tiny shot glass dwarfed by giant hands as he lifts it and empties it quickly.

Bucky reaches for his own, lifts it to his lips, and mirrors Thor’s action. The vodka burns down his throat, and he grimaces as he props the glass back onto the bar.

“Another!” Thor practically shouts to be heard above the fast-paced rock tune that Bucky doesn’t know but finds his foot tapping along to the drumbeat nonetheless.

“I don’t know… _Another_ is what had me crawling into bed with a strange alpha last night.” Bucky’s lips hitch up sardonically.

Thor’s laugh rings loud again, and Bucky resolutely ignores the feel of those same curious eyes on him—it feels like the whole room is staring at him—and blames the redness in his cheeks on the alcohol.

“I like you, Bucky Barnes. You’ve quite a sense of humor about you. It’s no wonder Steve is so fond of you. But I feel compelled to add that though I may be considered strange, you didn’t crawl, it wasn’t bed, and no clothing was removed, so your virtue is still intact.”

“I—um.” Bucky isn’t sure which part of that sentence he _should_ focus on—though he knows which part is bouncing around his head like it's a fucking echo chamber. He bites his tongue to stop himself asking what Steve had told Thor to give him such an impression.

“Bondings are happy occasions, Bucky! Cementing existing relationships and forging new ones.” Thor swallows his second shot before holding the other full glass out to Bucky. “You don’t have to drink it, of course. I’m more than happy to take it for you, but all your woes will still be waiting for you in the morning. Tonight, however, you can be free of them if you wish.”

Bucky hesitates. He’s pretty sure this isn’t a great idea, but then, he hasn’t exactly been batting a thousand in the logic department lately. His good ideas have turned out to be bad more often than not; maybe he’s living in some strange topsy-turvy land where bad means good and vice versa. And it’s not like a couple of shots will give him a hangover. But even if they do, all he has to do tomorrow is travel back home anyway. Hours spent with Steve… _alone._ Hours spent trying not to embarrass himself or blurting his feelings for Steve to Steve. He doesn't like his chances.

“So, you’re saying all I need to stop worrying and start enjoying life is to become a highly functioning alcoholic? It sounds like it’s worth a shot… or two.” Bucky takes the offered glass and pours the contents past his lips.

Thor’s thunderous laugh rumbles from his chest again as he holds out a hand toward Bucky. “Shall we?”

The alcohol in Bucky's mostly-empty belly is already leeching into his bloodstream, the first tinglings of a pleasant buzz beginning to creep through him. A night without woes sounds _amazing._ Grinning up at Thor, he slips his hand into the larger one. “We shall.”

  
  


Bucky swipes the damp tendrils of hair from his sweat-slicked forehead with the back of his hand. He's lost track of how long they've been out here, bouncing around to cheesy tunes and one-hit wonders. He's pretty sure he looks like an epileptic monkey having a fit, but Thor, thankfully, isn't much better. Still, it's exhilarating and mind-numbing and precisely what he needed to throw his brain's obsessive freight train on to a new track.

He jerks his arms up, contorting them to form the YMCA along with the rest of the guests, giggling as he bumps into one before bouncing back to crash into Thor's brick wall of a chest.

"Ooh, sorry," Bucky pants, grateful for the large hands that clamp onto his upper arms, steadying him, only now realizing how exhausted he is. "I am going to sleep like a baby tonight," he laughs before frowning. "If I can _find_ somewhere to sleep," he adds as an afterthought.

Thor leans close to be heard over the music. "What do you mean? Do you not have a room?"

"No. But it's okay. I just..." Bucky shrugs, shuffling on his feet. "It's a long story."

"You are welcome to stay with me."

"Oh, no, I couldn't," Bucky blurts, instantly wishing he'd not said anything. If Thor tells Steve...

"I'm serious, Bucky. You should spend the night with me."

"Am I interrupting?"

Bucky spins to find Steve behind him, face darker than the black clouds outside, the strong scent of alcohol on his breath. A shiver trembles down Bucky's spine, perking up all his punishment fantasies along the way. "Uh, nuh-uh. I was just—"

"Yes, you are," Thor interrupts. "We're not finished with our dance."

"It looks like you were doing more than that," Steve says lowly, eyes flicking to Thor's hands still clamped on Bucky's arms.

"And what of it? Don't tell me you've forgotten this morning so quickly? You can't steal something that wants to be taken," Thor counters.

"Taking without asking always leads to trouble," Steve growls menacingly.

Bucky's not sure what's happening, the conversation crossfire is vaulting over his head, but he steps back out of Thor's grasp, grateful when the large hands lift easily without further prompting. He tries to build the nerve to interject, but the tension between the alphas is turning the air thick, suffocating him, and he wants nothing more than to turn on his heel and rush back to the safety of the table.

"Lucky then that I can deal with _trouble_ quite easily," Thor continues, a sharp edge to his words now. "But you can't blame Bucky for wanting a little fun. You just left him all alone at the table, sparing no thought to him."

Steve steps forward, pressing his chest to Thor's, lifting his chin an inch to meet the hard gaze dead-on. "And I'm sure you have only his best interests at heart." The words are dripping with contempt. "Thank you for keeping Bucky company while I was gone, but I'm back now," he says in a voice somehow both fire and ice.

Thor ignores the obvious dismissal, not retreating but setting his shoulders, drawing to his full height, an unmistakable challenge evident in the deliberate movement. "I was merely offering Bucky a kindness."

"By inviting him into your bed?" Steve spits. "The best kindness you could offer is not sullying his reputation by association."

"Like yours is any better," Thor quips pointedly, voice rising.

The astringent scent of his own distress makes Bucky flinch, and Steve rounds on him in a second. The anger burning in those eyes is gone, replaced with concern. "Bucky? Are you alright?"

Bucky nods mutely. The sharp volley of words has sliced through his mind, unleashing memories of loud voices and raised hands, freeing the familiar anxiety along with them.

Steve reaches out but stops himself a breath away from finding purchase on Bucky's shoulders. "You're shaking."

"No, I'm—oh." Bucky wraps his arms around himself, only now becoming aware of the tremors skittering through his body. "Sorry, I'm just not great with confrontations."

"You have nothing to apologize for. I was _..."_ Steve huffs out a breath. " _I'm_ sorry. Can I do something for you? Do you need some air or a glass of water? Would you like to sit down? Go for a walk?"

A tentative smile curves Bucky's lips, his panic ebbing in the face of Steve's fussing. The thoughtfulness makes his belly feel kind of bubbly, like he's swallowed too much soda too fast. "No, I'm okay, but thank you."

"I should apologize, too, Bucky," Thor adds. "I did not mean any offense, but my offer stands—if you find yourself in need of a bed tonight, you're welcome to share mine." Steve stiffens as the unspoken _again_ rings loud, but Thor doesn't seem to notice or care.

"Thanks." A small smile is all Bucky can manage, but Thor repays it tenfold.

"I'll be at the bar if I'm needed." With a final sharp look to Steve, Thor turns away. The sea of bodies surrounding him part as he makes his way off the dance floor.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Steve asks the question carefully, as if Bucky is made of glass, likely to shatter apart at any second.

Holding up his hand, palm down, Bucky spreads his fingers, pride swelling inside him when it doesn't so much as tremble. "All good," he says before dropping it to his side.

"Bucky…" Steve hesitates. After a fleeting glance in the direction of the bar, he refinds Bucky's gaze and holds it, a muscle ticking over his clenched jaw. "May I have this dance?"

Bucky's heart jumps to his throat, beating wildly. Dance... with _Steve._ He nods once, but then freezes as the steady rhythmic thumping and strumming of guitar strings filters through the room. The frantic energy in the air shifts, turns heavy as the lazy tune and low vocals drift from the speakers, and the separate bodies surrounding them pair off, moving as one.

Half of him wants to feign sickness or flee to the bathroom and hide from the romantic song rippling around them. Steve surely wasn't expecting a fucking ballad to follow the YMCA—aren't slow songs reserved for the end of the night? For drunken groping opportunities when everyone's scrambling to find a willing warmth for their bed before the night ends?

But Steve isn't turning away, isn't looking uncertain or like he _wants_ Bucky to be anywhere other than he is right now.

Steve's hands—so large and warm and gentle—reach down, curl over his, and then they're floating, lifting high before landing carefully on either side of Steve's neck as he steps closer, pressing their bodies together.

_~~♫ Lie down with me, and hold me in your arms ♫~~  
_

The soft hair at Steve's nape tickles his trembling fingers as he locks them together, staring up into those beautiful eyes. Steve's palms ride over Bucky's waist, sliding over his lower back, stopping only when they meet, bleeding heat into his body that pools deep in his belly.

_~~♫ And your heart's against my chest, your lips pressed to my neck ♫~~  
_

The lyrics dance around them as Steve starts to sway, and Bucky follows his lead, allowing himself to be moved—a willing captive caught in Steve's gravitational pull orbiting around him—Bucky's very own north star.

_~~♫ I'm falling for your eyes, but they don't know me yet ♫~~_

Being in Steve's arms is nothing like he'd imagined—it's so much more in every way. He wants to close his eyes, melt into the touch—into Steve—to rest his head against that firm chest, let the strong arms wrapping around him anchor them together, _forever._

"A penny for your thoughts," Steve murmurs.

"They're really not worth that much," Bucky mutters.

"They are to me."

Bucky opens his mouth but the sarcastic retort dies on his tongue. The truth of Steve's words are shining out from those beautiful, earnest eyes, and he _melts_. "God, why do you have to be so…" He traps the rest of the sentence behind tight lips, shaking his head softly, hoping the dim lighting is hiding the secrets blooming into his cheeks.

"So… _what?"_ Steve arches an eyebrow in question, blue eyes searching Bucky's as if he'll find the answer he seeks hidden in them somewhere.

Their gentle rocking is slow, languid and easy, revolving them until the curtain of lights is behind Steve, dusting his silhouette with a warm glow, catching the highlights in his hair, turning it into a golden halo. But the stunning beauty holding him has nothing on the grace within, and Bucky's chest _aches_ with it.

"Perfect," he breathes out.

Steve's feet stop moving, and Bucky stills with him. They're no longer dancing, now standing motionless in a sea of swaying couples, Bucky locked in Steve's embrace—no longer guiding him, leading him, just _holding_ him as the music drifts around them.

_~~♫ So kiss me like you wanna be loved, you wanna be loved ♫~~  
_

Bucky's soft exhales punctuate the wistful melody streaming around them, soaking into his skin, stoking his courage. He slides his fingers up, threading through Steve's hair, and the strong arms wrapping around him tighten.

_~~♫ This feels like falling in love... Falling in love… We're falling in love ♫~~  
_

"Buck…" Steve tips forward, resting his forehead against Bucky's, close enough they're sharing air hot and heady, and Bucky darts his tongue over his lips, shivering when Steve's eyes track the movement.

 _"Yes."_ Bucky whispers. He doesn't know what he's agreeing to, doesn't need to; knows it's _Steve_ and that's enough. He'll take whatever Steve's offering. His head is foggy from both the alcohol and the alpha, and he doesn't have it in him to fight anymore. 

Steve reaches up to his own neck and unclasps Bucky's hands. He cradles both in one of his, sliding the other around Bucky's waist, and guides him toward the exit.

This could be Bucky's undoing, he knows, he could be walking straight into the jaws of death itself, but he would go willingly as long Steve is beside him.  
  
  


It takes Bucky a moment to realize Steve is guiding him down the path he'd trudged not two hours before, down to where the ceremony was held. The empty chairs look forlorn under the gathering storm, though the chiffon billows prettily in the breeze.

They stop at a long wooden table, painted white and stripped back, made to look aged, worn _— rustic, _ his brain supplies belatedly. He's never really understood the appeal in trying to make something new look old, but then, that's what the human psyche boils down to—coveting something you don't have; make new things look old, replace old for new, the grass is always greener when it belongs to someone else. And is that... is _that_ why he wants Steve? The thought twists his stomach sourly.

"I can hear you thinking," Steve murmurs. "I just needed a little fresh air, but if you'd prefer to go back inside—"

"No," Bucky interrupts quickly. "No, air is good. I was just thinking about, uh—" he steps away from Steve to gesture to the decorations, "—all of this."

Steve's hand hangs in midair where Bucky's back had been before he leans against the table behind him, curling both hands around the thick wooden top. He blows out a deep breath. "Yeah, I need to apologize for that, Bucky. Bringing you here was insensitive. I didn't even think about how this would feel for you. I'm sorry."

"No, it's okay." Bucky answers automatically, his people-pleasing, 'do not make a fuss' instincts kicking in before he can stop them, so used to going out of his way to make other people feel comfortable—usually to his own detriment.

"You don't have to hide anything with me," Steve says quietly as if he can read Bucky's mind. "It must be hard."

"I mean, yeah, it does kind of suck," Bucky confesses quietly with a tight smile. "Not the actual bonding—seeing two people pledge their lives to each other is amazing—but knowing I'll never experience that, you know? To have that connection…" He wraps his arms around himself, trying to ward off the chill of the building storm as much as the cold within. "My ma used to call it soul-sharing," he says faintly, recalling how he'd trailed small fingers over the dark grey scars on his mother's neck with wonder and excitement, captivated by her stories about his pa courting her and their bonding, daydreaming about the moment he'd find his soulmate—that one person made just for him.

While most other kids were busy dreaming of what they wanted to be when they grew up—doctors and astronauts and movie stars—Bucky would lose himself in musings about his other half, his missing piece. Imagining what they were like, looked like, smelled like, wondering when he would meet them. Other small hands were drawing superheroes and ballerinas for proud parents to stick to refrigerators, but his were marking his neck with crude lines, telling anyone who'd listen how he was going to have a whole litter of pups and live happily ever after with his soulmate.

Bucky sighs wearily. Life was so much simpler when he'd been a stupid kid with his head in the clouds, ignorant to the ways of the world and the wickedness of the people that filled it. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel his ma's fingers ruffling his hair, looking down into his beaming face with a small, sad smile that he didn't understand at the time, telling him to be patient, told him one day all his dreams would come true.

But that one day never came… and it is never going to.

He knew his ma was trying to avoid hurting him, no doubt hoping that one day things _would_ be different. But the reality is, the circumstance of his birth had put paid to his dreams long before he'd had them. The world didn't accept male omegas and refused him the same rights they granted everyone else. Even if he found his mate, he could never bond to them. It's a truth he'd accepted years ago, but the wound, especially now, standing in front of Steve, feels fresh and raw. But he'd long since learned that the injustices of life are quicksand, and struggling against them will only drown him that much more quickly.

"Bucky?"

"Hmm? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking about how it doesn't really matter much in any case. You need a mate to bond, right? I'm not exactly beating potential suitors off with a stick," he laughs humorlessly. "Not many people are willing to sign up for a bondless life with an undesirable." The admission makes him feel exposed, vulnerable, and he walks away from Steve, needing space to swallow up his words while he searches for new ones. Coming to a stop by the first trunk at the top of the aisle, he runs his fingertips over the velvet petals of the bouquet secured to it with satin ribbons. "The ceremony was beautiful. It's a pity you had to waste it on me."

"What do you mean?"

Bucky jumps at Steve's low voice directly behind him, spinning on the spot, pulse skyrocketing. "Oh, well…" He gestures to the flower-laden swing hanging from a thick branch some ten feet away, probably a prop used for photographs, maybe with Darcy perched on the seat with Loki staring down at her lovingly, captured and ready to be framed for posterity. "All of this. These things are so romantic." He smiles wistfully as Thor's words echo through his mind. "Cementing bonds, forging new ones… it's the perfect setting to bring a lover, or someone you _wish was_ , someone you can take advantage of the atmosphere with. Instead, you wasted your plus one on your PA."

"I didn't waste anything," Steve says quietly.

"I'm not sure Sharon would agree,' Bucky snorts. "She would have loved this; so many chances for setting-appropriate PDA." The words conjure images to his mind and bile to his throat, but he clears it as Steve's eyes narrow on him. "I just mean, um, I can't believe she'd choose work over coming here with you, that's all," he adds contritely.

"She didn't choose work over attending—she wasn't invited."

"Oh. I just thought… Loki said you asked to bring a plus one."

"I did, but it wasn't to invite Sharon. You're not here because she was busy; you're not a consolation prize, Bucky."

"I don't understand," Bucky says slowly, his brain working to find a way to make these new puzzle pieces fit into an already completed picture. "You asked Loki if... _for me?_ You _wanted_ to... bring _me?"_

"I thought it was the perfect opportunity to spend some time getting to know each other better, away from all the pressures of the job."

"Uh-huh, yeah, that… makes sense." Except, no, it doesn't… it doesn't make any sense at all. "Sharon must be a very understanding girlfriend," Bucky says tightly, having trouble putting Sharon and any positive character trait together in a single sentence. Though by the law of averages, he supposes she can't be _all_ bad, but whatever positive attributes she possesses must be very cleverly and deeply hidden.

Steve's brow furrows before he cocks his head to the side, a slow smile blooming over his lips. _"Ah._ You didn't read the paperwork before you signed it, did you?"

Bucky tries to follow the abrupt U-turn in subject, but his brain jackknifes. "Umm, what paperwork?"

"Your NDA."

"Oh. Well…" Bucky shrugs carefully. He _had_ read the top two lines in bold that said he had to read the entire document carefully before signing, and then… just skipped straight to the bottom. It was seven pages of tiny print, and well... he figured it was like the standard terms and conditions to every other thing he'd agreed to in his life. "I, uh, it's just the first rule of Fight Club, right? I wasn't planning on telling anyone anything—oh," he winces at the inadvertent lie, realizing he _was_ planning on telling Nat _some_ things, but barrels on quickly, "um, so the particulars didn't seem all that important."

"That explains a lot," Steve hums. "It seems you missed the part where Sharon isn't actually my girlfriend."

"I— _what?"_ Bucky's mouth drops open so quick his jaw hurts, and he knows he must look like a stunned mullet, but... that's pretty much _exactly_ how he feels. _"What do you mean she's not your girlfriend?"_

"It's a business arrangement; quid pro quo. She needed to boost her industry profile, and I needed to… _clean_ mine. It was decided this would be a win-win situation for us both; a 'relationship' with a built-in expiration date."

Bucky's mouth opens and closes three times before he recovers enough to form words. “Um, does _she_ know it’s not real?”

Steve chuckles. "Yeah. There was a… misunderstanding in the beginning, but we're just friends."

"Are you sure? I mean, relationships have bloomed from less likely beginnings, and she's very pretty." And pissy, Bucky adds silently. "Very… blonde."

"Yeah, she is," Steve murmurs, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind Bucky's ear. "But I prefer brunets."

 _"Uhhh…"_ Bucky nods, heart pounding so hard and fast in his throat he's sure Steve must be able to see it, but that doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, not when he's about to pass out at any second. "Right, well. Don't tell her that or she'll probably dye her hair."

Steve's rumbling laugh is the perfect opportunity for Bucky to turn away before he does something horribly embarrassing like falling to his knees and declaring his undying love. He tilts his face up to the sky again, letting the chilly air battle the blaze in his cheeks.

Steve's gaze is on him again, the weight of it now familiar and oddly reassuring in an unnerving kind of way. He doesn't meet it, though, choosing instead to stare up at the dark clouds hanging low and swollen with rain.

"Bucky..."

"I love the smell of rain," Bucky blurts quickly, not sure he'll survive hearing whatever Steve had been about to say.

"I've smelled prettier things." Steve's voice is warmer than a furnace as he steps closer, pressing his chest to Bucky's back. But he doesn't wrap his arms around him like last night, just offers up the heat of his body, putting the ball squarely in Bucky's court.

It feels more charged somehow, knowing Steve is single. Without the blond barrier between them, Bucky is suddenly reevaluating every single action and word and look, and the embers of hope that catch in his chest eat up the oxygen in his lungs.

He lasts almost a whole minute before he accepts Steve's offering. And only when he sighs and sags back against the hard chest do strong arms wrap around him, pulling them more snugly together... and god, it shouldn't be possible to fit so perfectly against someone else. Bucky never wants to be anywhere but slotted against Steve for the rest of his life.

"When did you move here?" He asks quietly, half to hear the story, and half to feel the words rumble from Steve's chest into his.

"My parents died when I was twelve. Frigga, Loki's mom, was my mom's best friend, and she didn't hesitate for a second before taking me in. The Odinson's were wonderful." Steve chuckles fondly. "They were saints, actually. Putting up with the three of us boys running wild, causing chaos, and just generally getting into trouble, taking all of it with good grace and better humor. I don't know where I'd be now without them."

"I'm sorry about your parents. I lost mine when I wasn't much older; I know how rough it is." Bucky sighs and melts further into Steve's embrace, the body heat sinking into his bones and staving off the chill of repressed recollections rousing. He is glad Steve had found family after losing his. Bucky had not been so lucky, bounced from one foster home to the next until he'd decided he was better off on his own. He shakes off the bad memories, watching the clouds swallow up the last patch of sky, and with it, the gentle shimmering of green just starting to flicker across it. "But that's one mystery solved, at least."

"And which mystery is that?"

"Why you never look at the sky. After all those years growing up here, you're just not impressed by it anymore, huh?"

Steve chuckles softly. "I don't think anyone could become immune to the beauty of the Aurora."

"Then why do you never look at it?" Bucky turns in Steve's hold just enough to search his face, breath hitching when he finds those beautiful eyes already fixed on him.

"Because there's something much more stunning on offer."

Bucky knows it's a line—it has to be—but right now, he doesn't care; he'll swallow it down with the sinker and hook still firmly attached and worry about what comes after, _after,_ because Steve is here, Steve is single, and Steve is gazing down at him like he really is the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

He turns in Steve's embrace—those strong arms loosening just enough to let him without letting go—and then they're chest to chest. The cold wind lashes the loose tendrils of hair across his face as he tips it toward Steve, tongue painting a wet stripe over his parted lips.

_"Steve…"_

He's standing on the cusp of something dangerous, the tipping point of fantasies becoming reality, and all at once, it's so terrifying he can't move.

But then those warm, gentle hands are cupping his face so _achingly_ tenderly, and a thumb sweeps over the hinge of his jaw, and Bucky's mouth opens instinctively.

He wants this. He wants this more than he can ever remember wanting _anything_ , and his head goes a little soft knowing he can have it if only he can be brave enough.

"Buck..."

Bucky traps his breath in his lungs with a desperate wish, pushes up on his toes, and presses his lips hesitantly to Steve's. The hand not drawing small circles over his jaw slides back, cupping his nape, pulling him closer as Steve deepens the kiss.

His own timid explorations are met by Steve's much more confident ones, working his mouth like a finely tuned instrument, pulling soft moans and desperate whimpers from his throat as clever, wet and wicked tongue fucks into his mouth, and teasing teeth nip at his lower lip.

Steve tastes like whiskey and sin and _forever_ , and Bucky can't get enough. The only thing keeping him from shattering apart or flying up into the ether is the firm hand gripping the back of his neck, and the low, hungry growls rumbling from Steve's chest. He doesn't feel cold anymore; in fact, he's _burning_ , but it's okay because his inhibitions are ash and the sky is on fire too, and sweet melodies are ringing in his ears. He's pretty sure this is what Heaven is like.

Bucky winds his arms around Steve's neck, holding on for dear life as his hips grind against a thick thigh. But Steve pulls back with a groan, and Bucky chases his lips blindly, needing Steve's taste in his mouth more than oxygen in his lungs. But a finger presses against his kiss-swollen lips, and it's only then that he opens his eyes to find the source of the music.

Steve lifts the phone to his ear with his free hand. "What's wrong?" Steve's voice is clipped, impatient. Bucky sucks the finger into his mouth, smiling around it as Steve bites out a groan. "No—nothing. I'll be there in a minute." Steve hooks his finger into Bucky's cheek before dragging it from his mouth, tracing a line of his own spit across his cheek as he shoves his phone back into his pocket.  
  
"Jesus, Buck. You are making it incredibly difficult to do the right thing."

Bucky giggles—fucking _giggles_ —drunk on the feeling of his wildest fantasies somehow coming true. Steve _likes_ him, likes kissing him, too, if that bulge against his belly is anything to go by. He still can't believe it, is still half-convinced he's going to wake up any minute to find he slipped from his chair during the ceremony and knocked himself out, and this is some weird concussion dream—but _until_ then, he's just going to go with it.

"Who was that? And what is the right thing?"

"That was Loki. And the right thing is going in and delivering the best man speech they're waiting on."

"Oh." Bucky locks his fingers more tightly around Steve's neck, the first stirrings of doubt prickling his mind. Out here, alone, everything is perfect. But what if they go inside and everything _— "Steve!" _

Bucky gasps as Steve's hands slide down his back to grip his ass tightly before hoisting him up. He locks his legs around Steve's waist as he's carried back to the table and set down on it gently. It's the perfect height for him to stay wrapped around Steve as that beard scrapes down his throat, as soft lips press hot, open-mouth kisses to his skin.

He tangles his hands in Steve's hair, tipping his face to the sky and baring his throat, offering himself completely to the pleasure of Steve's mouth. The wet tongue sliding over his skin pulls a moan of Steve's name from his lips.

"Steve, I... _god,_ I thought you— _oh, shit_ —had to... uh, speech," Bucky babbles, fisting Steve's hair and rutting against his belly.

"Mmm, I do." Steve's hot breath lands on the wet stripes painted over his neck. "But they... can wait... a few... more minutes," he husks, pressing sweet kisses to flushed skin between the words.

Moisture rolls down Bucky's cheek, and he whines, too far gone to care he's crying. "Steve, please, I—" he breaks off with a gasp as something wet splashes on his cheek, and then again, and again...

All at once, Bucky's brain comes back online, and he squeaks as the angry clouds above start peppering them with freezing rain.

Steve straightens, frowning up at the sky before unbuttoning his suit jacket and shrugging it off his incredible shoulders.

Bucky blinks at him, confused. Surely they're not going to... _here_... _now._ "Um, Steve...?" He tries and fails to hold back the hungry sound in his throat, seeing the white shirt turn translucent in each spot the droplets land.

The flash of blue fans out above him as Steve shakes out the jacket like a matador's cape, letting it fall over Bucky's head and drape down his back. "Hold on to me," he says, tucking his hands under Bucky's ass again and lifting him from the table.

Realization dawns, albeit slowly—and that's not Bucky's fault when all blood is trapped a long ways from his brain—and he tightens his limbs around Steve. "I can walk, you know," he protests weakly, not for the first time in these arms, even while tightening his embrace.

"I've seen the trouble you get yourself into without adding slippery surfaces into the mix," Steve laughs as he moves swiftly toward the hotel, carrying Bucky like he weighs no more than a pound. "Just hold tight and enjoy the ride."

"Yes, sir," Bucky whispers, giggling again when Steve growls and blunt fingers dig sharply into his ass.

Being in Steve's arms is dizzying, giddy euphoria flushing through his veins with every rapid beat of his heart. He sighs contentedly, snuggling down in the vanilla-scented, make-shift cocoon and presses his face into Steve's neck, mewling soft, happy sounds as he does as he's told.


	11. There's Only One Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's only one bed," Bucky gestures to it redundantly, and oh, shit, was it always that small? What is that anyway? A queen? A double? For as much room as Steve's larger-than-life body is going to demand, it might as well be a single. And, oh, great, now he's hyperventilating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. So NaNo backfired, somehow both motivating me and burning me out, so I'm going to try and stick to the schedules but… if you're this far into this story, you already know me and good I am to sticking to things. Womp, womp. 
> 
> There is a Christmas chapter… in like, ten chapters, and I desperately want to get it out in time for Christmas, so… we'll see. I'm just adding this here to try and pressure myself into achieving it (because it worked so well for NaNo! ahhaa *collapses into a puddle*)
> 
> ii. This one is going to be random, but I just wanted to say ILY guys.. for sticking with this, for sticking with me—I see all of you bouncing around to my other fics and leaving love on them, and poking me on tumblr, and playing with me on discord and I just.. it's really nice, I appreciate it a lot—I appreciate *you* a lot. Thank you. <3 (Shaddup, I'm feeling sappy).
> 
> iii. There is one moment of feminization in this chapter.. literally, like, a word. So.. if you have word allergies… um, take a Xanax and read it anyway. ;) 
> 
> iv. It's pretty clear that I am not great at judging the secondhand embarrassment level. But, I'm going to err on the side of caution and label this one as a 4.5/5. So if you're sensitive, please bring a safety blanket or take breaks or do some deep breathing exercises or something. (But if I've overstated it, please let me know so I can adjust the rating for others).

The agonizingly slow slide down Steve's body is sweet torture, and Bucky's aching dick twitches hopefully as it rubs against mirrored desire. And when his feet finally touch ground outside the double doors leading into the reception, the exhilarating stolen moments catch up and land with him, and his knees buckle embarrassingly. But Steve's steady hands clamp around his waist and keep him from crumpling completely and making a vaguely Bucky-shaped puddle on the floor.

He's still giddy, breathless, heart fit to bursting with surreal happiness as he lifts the very expensive, very dapper makeshift raincoat from his head. The threads are damp under his fingers as he clutches it tightly with both hands. "Thank you, S—"

The moan that shocks from his throat when Steve's lips unexpectedly claim his is high, feminine and needy, and much too indecent for their surroundings, but Bucky can't find it in himself to care, not when _his_ whole world has just shrunk down to exclude everything but the blistering heat of the mouth ravaging his.

The jacket slips from his hands, forgotten, as he melts into Steve's broad chest, his trembling fingers digging into the crisp white fabric still warm from his own body heat. Steve crowds him back against the wall beside the door, caging him in with hardness front and back, the hands on his waist spreading a little wider, grabbing a little tighter, taking more of his weight—the only tether keeping him anchored as his mind and body separate, sinking and floating, deeper and higher with each frantic beat of his heart.

He gives himself over to the sensation, meeting Steve's expert demands with fuzzy-headed enthusiasm. He's a little too sloppy, much too eager, unable to stop the stream of desperate whimpers spilling into Steve's mouth, nor the shuddering moan that tears free when a thick thigh nudges between his, spreading him open. His mouth goes slack, gasping for air as the stimulation overload assaults his brain. The playful nip at the tip of his tongue before Steve draws back sends a spike of pain-pleasure straight to his already leaking dick.

"If you say that word one more time," Steve growls against his swollen lips, "I am going to take you right here, against this fucking wall, hard and deep and slow, until the only word you remember is _please_."

 _"Nnngghh…"_ The delicious promise in that deep voice is Bucky's undoing, and he sags against Steve, whimpering as the thick thigh pressing against his dick readjusts to take the additional weight.

God, but he wants to test it, wants to bat his lashes coyly, tug his lip between his teeth before soothing the bite with a swipe of his tongue, and say the word that makes those bright blue eyes darken like night swallowing up the sky.

The possibility that Steve _would_ take him here where anyone walking out of those doors could find them and see Steve claiming his body lights up Bucky's brain like a Christmas tree—and shit, is there any latent kink Steve _can't_ activate? But the flash of heat in his groin mellows, shifts and pools in his chest. Instinctively, he knows there is very little he'd deny Steve, but this time, the _first_ time, he wants to be greedy, to keep Steve just for himself. He wants the hard and deep and slow, but he wants it upstairs, in Steve's bed—in _their_ bed—with nothing between heated skin but sweat and spent breaths, wants the only gaze claiming that perfect body to be _his._

Steve's hands are on his jaw, tilting it up and back, and Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and sighs into the touch, willingly following Steve's lead, giving him everything he wants to take.

And take, he does.

The mouth claiming Bucky's throat is open, wet, sucking hard enough to mark him up, the press of teeth making him tremble, the hot drag of a clever tongue laving at his skin making him leak. He pants furiously, sucking empty air into his lungs that does nothing but fan the flames licking through his body. His hands tangle in Steve's hair—silky and damp—torn between pressing him closer and pulling him away, afraid of what he'll do if Steve doesn't stop.

"S-Steve," he gasps. "I—I was going to say _Steve_."

The suction on his neck eases then vanishes completely, Steve swiping his tongue over the tingling spot in one last, long drag before pressing a chaste kiss to his skin. "Mhmm," he rumbles, rocking his thigh maddeningly against Bucky's tortured dick. "Sure you were, baby."

_Baby._

_**Baby.** _

Bucky's whole world goes soft around the edges, and his head falls back like his spine has melted, too. But firm fingers grip his chin, urging it back down, holding it tight in place, and Bucky whines, wanting nothing more than to let it loll forward onto Steve's shoulder.

"Jesus, look at you. So soft and sweet. Your head a little fuzzy already, baby?"

Bucky can only nod, his tongue too thick and heavy to form words. Steve's hand sweeps through his hair, again and again, nails scratching gently over his scalp, drawing goosebumps from his skin. His eyelids flutter closed, giving himself over to the viscous pleasure rolling through his veins.

"Fuck," Steve breathes softly. "I think I should take you upstairs."

Upstairs. _Bed._ Bucky nods his head up and down jerkily. _"Please."_

"Yeah? You wanna rest for a few minutes while I finish my best man duties?"

Rest. Alone? Bucky shakes his head, as much to clear the fog as to signal his disagreement. "No, I—" He flicks his tongue over his lips, wetting them, hoping it'll let the words slide out more easily. "No, I'm okay. I'll wait for you. We can go up together."

Warm thumbs sweep over the hinges of his jaw as Steve hums thoughtfully. "I don't know, baby. You look two seconds away from needing me to carry you upstairs; I'm not sure you're even going to be able to walk to your seat."

Trying to ignore the image of Steve carrying him up to the room, Bucky shakes his head again and rises to the challenge. "'M good." It's not a lie; he does feel really fucking good in a completely drugged up kind of way. His whole body feels heavy like it's lost circulation, the deadened state before pins and needles sets in, and his head has turned to molasses, thick and syrupy, smoky and sweet. Still, after only three attempts, he manages to lock his knees and hold his own weight, though the leg between his doesn't lower so much as an inch.

Steve's hands do, though, dropping to his waist as if he expects Bucky to swoon any second. "Food will be served after the speeches. How about after you eat, we make our excuses and leave early?"

Bucky blinks up at Steve, tiny branches of his brain slowly coming back online. He'd completely forgotten about food—the object of his ravenous hunger no longer on a plate but standing in front of him. "Nuh-uh. After the speeches."

Steve's husky laugh licks down Bucky's spine. "After you eat," he repeats, voice playful but stern. "You're going to need your strength."

"I can grab something from the minibar." _After,_ Bucky's brain supplies before stalling, a new image of Steve feeding him something _during_ , instead. And oh, why is that so arousing? The thought of Steve hand feeding him while he's rocking on his cock. The undignified gurgling sounds roughing up his throat is mostly lost to the racking cough as he almost chokes on his own tongue. _Again._

A hand lifts from his waist to rub soothing stripes up his back, but the soft strokes just make him harder. "Are you alright?"

Bucky just nods mutely, still sucking oxygen in through his nose, eyes watering. Jesus, Steve is going to be the death of him, and they haven't even gotten naked yet.

Steve's leg lowers, but he positions himself quickly by Bucky's side, bending to retrieve the abandoned jacket before snaking one hand around his waist. "C'mon, let's get you some water."

Though his feet are planted firmly on the floor, Bucky feels like he's floating as Steve escorts him to his table and pulls his chair out for him. As he sinks into his seat, the hand on his waist drags up over his back, coming to curve over his shoulder as if Steve is reluctant to break contact. The thought tugs at the corners of Bucky's mouth, etching a small, happy smile into his cheeks even as the warmth on his shoulder finally disappears when Steve reaches for the water jug to fill his glass.

Steve makes a small clucking noise with his tongue as he sets the jug back down, and Bucky looks up to see Steve's lips are turned down. He follows the confused gaze back down to the plate of food on the table in front of him. "Food is meant to be served after the speeches."

"It was, but I do believe something about a missing best man prompted them to change the order of things."

Bucky turns to the pretty brunette sitting beside him, smiling up at Steve in a much too familiar way, and he stiffens in his chair. He recognizes flirting when he sees it, well, when it's directed _at_ Steve, at least.

" _Peggy?_ Is that you?"

The omega—Peggy—laughs, as soft and pretty as the tinkling of glasses and Bucky wants to throw up.

"It's been a long time, Steve. How has life been treating you?"

"Wow. Little Peggy Carter, all grown up. I can't believe it." Steve shakes his head as his eyes roam over her, wide and disbelieving. "I can't complain, and you?"

"Quite well, thank you. We should catch up while you're here," Peggy says, hope floating every word. "Maybe tomorrow?"

The implication in the invitation is clearer than the expensive glassware adorning the table, and Bucky is torn between bristling at the brazen omega and slumping in dejection, knowing she is both more beautiful and more suitable than he could ever hope to be.

"I would love to, Pegs, but we've got an early flight out in the morning."

Steve's words make Bucky's decision for him, and he straightens in his chair, preening at the _we_.

"The night is still very young, Steve. Maybe later tonight? After the reception? We could—"

"I'm sorry, I hate to break up this little reunion—and Peg, that lipstick is gorgeous, by the way—but Steve, would you please get your ass back up to your seat? We've already had to mess with the schedule because you went AWOL, and I swear if Loki stares daggers at you any harder, his retinas are going to detach."

Bucky jerks his attention to the newcomer, his irritation swiftly shifting to contrition at the first glimpse of the beautiful garnet gown.

"Of course. Sorry, Darce," Steve says smoothly, though not without a hint of amusement in his voice. "I lost track of time."

Darcy smiles at Steve, red lips twisting in knowing indulgence, and grabs his hand. The tips of long ruby nails press divots into his skin. "Mhmm. Loki's told me all about your little _distraction_ ," she snorts, eyes raking over Bucky before she turns away and tugs on Steve's hand for him to follow.

Steve doesn't budge though, choosing instead to turn his attention back to brunette number two. "I'm cutting out early tonight, Pegs; I have plans, sorry. But I'll grab your number before I leave, and I'll call you to catch up next week." He darts a look to Darcy—tugging on his arm like a child trying to budge a stubborn parent—before his focus settles back on Bucky. He bends, leaning close enough that the whispered words blow hot over Bucky's ear, intended for him and him alone. "Eat something, Buck. If you're a good boy, I'll feed you dessert later."

Bucky pinches his lip between his teeth hard enough that the moan of pleasure bleeds into a groan of pain, and by the time he's rubbing his tongue over the sharp indents on the soft inside of his lip, Steve is already walking away. But the fluttering in his belly only increases with each step of distance as Steve allows Darcy to drag him toward their table.

"How do you know Steve?"

Bucky ignores the question until Steve folds himself into his seat, immediately getting caught up in a heated conversation with Thor when he leans close and starts gesturing angrily. Half of Bucky wishes he were closer so he could hear the hushed words accompanying heated looks, but when Steve turns to look in his direction, the other half of him decides he's very happy where he is, suddenly self-conscious at the thought they're talking about him.

"I know you didn't grow up around here," Peggy continues, voice alight with curiosity.

Finally, when Steve's attention turns back to Thor, Bucky twists to face Peggy. "Oh, um, from work."

"You're an actor, too?"

Bucky peers at her, trying to weigh up whether she's being serious or mocking him. The lilting accent leans more to the latter, but it could go either way. "No. I'm—"

With his job description on the tip of his tongue, he catches himself just in time. He's never really understood his compulsion to answer questions like he owes people the information. He's not sure if it's nature or nurture that compels him, but for the first time in his life, he fights against his innate impulses. He doesn't want to give this _old friend_ any more information than he has to. Words can be weapons, and he doesn't want to hand over ammunition to the enemy, not when it could hurt Steve.

"You're…?" Peggy prompts.

"I'm _not_ an actor," Bucky answers flatly. He knows he's being snippish, probably even childish, but he can't shake the possessiveness roaring in the back of his mind. He takes his fancy gold cutlery in hand and slices a piece of sauce-covered something before pushing it into his mouth and starts chewing—the universally accepted action that can only be interpreted as _I'm busy, please stop talking to me._

But whether this particular universal custom didn't extend to wherever Peggy's accent hails from, or she simply does not care to abide by it, she pushes her own mystery meat distractedly around on her plate, she persists unperturbed. "I don't suppose you know what room he's staying in, do you?" She blushes prettily. "I just… I thought I might pop in to see him if we miss each other before he leaves tonight, or if I can't get my phone back to add him into my contacts…"

He ignores Peggy's question and lobs one of his own. "Get your phone back from who?"

Peggy lays her fork down on the plate. "All phones had to be surrendered upon entry to the reception. The sign said they want us to just be present and enjoy the evening, however," her eyes drift in a familiar direction, "I have a sneaking suspicion that request has more to do with Steve than documenting the reception."

Bucky makes a small, noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. It's more than possible; it's probable and sweet. Loki had no doubt confiscated the phones to allow Steve a night free from worrying he'd end up in the tabloids. And, considering what had happened already, it had been a damn good call on Loki's part. Bucky had been too out of it when he'd zombie-walked into the reception to notice what everyone else was doing, but then, he hadn't even thought to bring his phone anyway; he'd been too caught up in Steve's hands on him, guiding him from the room. He ducks his head as warmth creeps under his skin, staining his cheeks as memories of more than just Steve's hands on him race along his nerves.

"How do _you_ know Steve?" Bucky asks abruptly, genuinely curious as he draws pretty patterns through the sauce with his fork.

"I was going to marry him."

Bucky's fork clatters to the plate and he startles at the sound, head snapping up, eyes wide. “You were _engaged?_ ” he croaks.

Peggy laughs. "Oh, no, of course not. I was always trailing after the three of them growing up, running after Steve, specifically. He's four years older than me, which at that age, might as well be forty. He saw me as something akin to a sister, I think, but I was desperately in love with him," she sighs wistfully in a tone that makes Bucky think the feelings had not changed much in the many years since. "I wonder if he finally allowed someone to catch him. Do you know if he's seeing anyone?" Peggy asks suddenly.

Bucky spears a piece of asparagus whole and folds it into his mouth, trying not to wince as he chews slowly, buying time. God, he hates asparagus, but he hates _this_ more. Hates that he can't answer honestly and say that while technically Steve is single, he's hoping that will change after tonight. Hates that he doesn't know where he stands, how much he can say, or if he's breaking some tiny, four-point line of text in his NDA by knowing what Steve's tongue tastes like.

He swallows that last thought roughly, but he's glad for the cough scraping over his throat, giving him a little extra procrastination time, and reaches for his water. He drains it as slowly as he can manage, but Peggy's expectant gaze is patient and unyielding, and he knows he can't stall any longer.

"You should probably be asking _him_ that question," Bucky says carefully.

"Oh, yes, of course. I'm sorry," Peggy flusters, the dusting of pink on her cheeks deepening. "I didn't mean to pry. I just wondered if maybe…" she trails off, eyes wandering back to Steve.

Bucky doesn't comment; he's got nothing to say to that. He just sets his knife and fork down over his plate, appetite suddenly gone. Peggy gives him a quick smile before she swivels on her chair, starting a conversation with the imposing-looking guy with the eye patch from the buck's party. Bucky doesn't try to join the conversation or even keep track of it, too busy running Steve's promise for tonight over and over in his head.

He excuses himself quietly—not that anyone's paying him any mind—and heads for the bathroom.

 _Tonight._ It is going to happen tonight. After so long waiting, dreaming, imagining, it is finally, _actually_ going to happen. 

He pushes open the heavy door, thankful to find the room empty, and takes the stall furthest from the door out of habit. His lips twist sardonically at the thought he should be grateful to Peggy; if not for talking to her, he'd probably be too hard to empty his bladder. But that's not the only thing he needs to take care of.

After he's cleaned the slick from his skin and the tacky trails of precome from his dick with toilet paper that's plusher than the towels in Steve's bathroom, he exits the stall, and startles at his reflection in the long panel mirror above the row of sinks.

His hair doesn't look too bad, all things considered. Steve had done a decent job combing it with his fingers, but that is where his presentability begins and ends. He looks utterly debauched; his tie is crooked, lips still kiss-swollen, cheeks flushed pink, and eyes still a little feverish, wild-looking. But it's the sight of his neck that makes him throb back to life so quickly it _hurts_.

He trails trembling fingers over the small red marks littering his neck, following them to the large beginnings of a bruise a scant inch from his bonding gland. The angry, crimson mark is the exact size and shape of Steve's mouth, the branded skin still warm under his hand.

Anticipation jitters beneath his skin so intensely he feels as if he's going to vibrate clear out of it. Steve's mouth will soon be on him again, those large hands gripping him tight, pressing fingertip bruises into his body that will linger for days. And then… then he'll have Steve _inside_ him.

After a shaky breath, Bucky pumps the soap dispenser on the wall, filling his palm and scrubbing his hands together, trying to ignore the anxiety nibbling at the edges of desire. He _should_ talk to Steve first, things need to be said, but… god, he doesn't want to scare him away, not now he finally has him… or is _about_ to—as long as he doesn't fuck it up. Maybe he shouldn't say anything at all, just follow Steve's advice and enjoy the ride, not make a big deal out of nothing. He huffs out a sigh, rinsing his hands before he shoves them into the air dryer. Maybe he should just stop overthinking and march back out to his seat, plant his ass in it, and count down the minutes until Steve's mouth is on him again.

Laughter is the first thing he hears as he slips out of the bathroom, pushing the heavy door open awkwardly with an elbow. The second thing he hears is Thor's booming voice, and Bucky immediately gives the singles table a mental upgrade—from the worst to the best—now thankful it _is_ tucked away at the back of the room. He skirts around the walls as he makes his way to his seat, glad all eyes are on Thor, currently lovingly roasting his brother in his toast.

Bucky's plate is gone from the table along with all the others, and in its place is a glass of champagne. He takes it in hand carefully and pivoting on his seat, shifting his focus to the long table where Thor is standing, champagne in one hand, microphone in the other.

"—but that is a story best saved to be used as blackmail material against my brother at a later date," Thor chuckles. "For now, I'll ask you all to raise your glasses and join me in toasting Loki and Darcy, and wishing them all the happiness they not only deserve but have earned."

Bucky raises his champagne, his well wishes blending with a hundred others before he takes a sip. It's sharp and fizzy on his tongue, but that's not what makes his belly bubble when Steve stands up and takes the microphone from Thor because, damn, Loki really should not have invited him if he wanted to be the center of attention at his own bonding. But now it's too late, and all eyes are glued on Steve, and Bucky swears he can hear the room's collective intake of breath.

The warm lighting catches the beautiful angles of Steve's face, and dances across the mountains of his incredible shoulders, covered again in that stunning tuxedo jacket now a little worse for wear. He looks too good to be true, the golden glow giving an otherworldly shimmer—a mirage to torment those dying of thirst… which, if the sudden increase of pheromones thickening the air is any indication, is the entire room.

"I'd like to apologize for keeping everyone waiting earlier; I got a little caught up in the stunning scenery outside," Steve says, locking eyes on Bucky. "But that's enough about me. Tonight is all about Loki, as he reminded me this morning. _Repeatedly._ " He smiles, waiting for the laughter rippling through the guests to ebb before continuing. "I had the good fortune and, yes, sometimes the _misfortune_ of growing up with Lo', but for all his mischief—and there was always a lot of that—he has a truly incredible capacity for love, too. I'm sure the last thing he wanted was to share the spotlight with another over-sized blond alpha during his all-important teen years, but he opened his arms and his heart and treated me like a brother when I needed family the most. Darcy, I've only had the privilege of meeting a few times before today, but I knew within the first five minutes of meeting her that Lo' had finally met his match; her tongue is just as sharp, her heart just as big, and—"

"Bucky, may I have a word?"

Bucky whips toward the hushed summons so quickly a nerve twinges painfully in his neck. He winces and reaches up to rub it while frowning down at Thor, who had somehow come to crouch beside his chair without him noticing. This hyper fixation where Steve is concerned is really starting to become a problem. He wouldn't be surprised if he walks into a sinkhole and disappears into the face of the earth on his way to the plane in the morning, all because of something stupid like being transfixed on the sunlight glistening off Steve's perfect teeth.

But right now, Steve is exactly what he _should_ be focusing on. "Yeah, but after the speeches," Bucky whispers. "I'm kinda…" He gestures toward the head table.

Thor ignores the disapproving look from Peggy and leans closer. "I'm afraid this can't wait. I need your help."

Bucky twists back to see Steve, looking at the new mates, poking gentle fun at Loki while Darcy, looking delighted, laughs and leans her head on his shoulder.

_“Please.”_

It's the imploring edge of Thor's voice that pulls against Bucky's better judgment, but it's the pleading look twisting that usually cheerful face that seals his fate. He nods and rises from his chair, bending low as he ducks past the other guests seated at his table, though he needn't have bothered: all four sets of eyes are fixed on him rather than Steve. He follows Thor around the tables swiftly, hugging the walls until they reach the door with the familiar _keep out_ sign that Steve had disappeared into earlier.

Every step away from the table—from watching Steve dazzle the entire room like the bright, shiny star he is—twists Bucky's stomach into knots. He's not sure this can end in anything but disaster, especially after the strange display between the would-be brothers on the dance floor and again during dinner, but if Thor really needs his help… Still, with Steve's temporary claim still fresh on his neck, he's aware of how running away with Thor is going to look, but… surely Steve will understand.

Bucky follows Thor through the door, and his jaw falls open… and that's not the only thing that drops. His stomach hits his feet where it flounders distressingly as he takes in the sight before him.

Oh, yeah, Steve is definitely going to understand.

"Um, Thor? What… happened?"

"The trolley may have been nudged into the wall, and the cake did not take kindly to the impact."

"Okay," Bucky draws the word out slowly, fighting back the panic blooming inside his chest. "Yeah, I can see that, but… I don't understand. Why am _I_ here?"

"I need you to fix it."

 _"Fix it?"_ Bucky chokes out. He is pretty sure he can feel his soul trying to escape his body. "There is a crack the size of the San Andreas fault running through the bottom tier of your brother's bonding cake. How exactly do you propose I _fix it?"_

"I don't know," Thor says helplessly. "But you are a personal assistant, and I am in dire need of assistance."

"No, you're in dire need of a new cake or a massive head start before your brother comes in and sees what you've done to this one," Bucky counters.

"Unfortunately, neither of those options are viable right now."

Bucky takes a tentative step forward, scared that his footsteps will reverberate up through the metal trolley holding the five-tier bonding cake, and it will collapse into a sugared mess, landing at his feet along with the blame.

"Where is the kitchen staff? The chef? Are they still here somewhere?" He darts a look around the empty, spotless kitchen, and the vise in his chest tightens.

"I'm afraid not. It's just us," Thor says with a crooked grin, staring at Bucky expectantly.

 _Us._ Oh. No, no, no. Bucky shakes his head frantically; he's not going to get the bonding disaster trifecta. "No, I can't—I mean… god, I go on coffee runs and pick up dry cleaning and walk dogs, I haven't been studying cake decorating on the side, I have no idea what to do, Thor, and I'm a human disaster, you don't want me anywhere near that cake, trust me, I'm not—"

Seeming to pick up on his panic, Thor waves away his babbling excuses. "No, you're right, of course. My apologies. I shouldn't have involved you." Thor offers him a warm smile. "It's fine. The small blemish does not distract from the taste, I'm sure. But regardless, I'll take my brother's ire with good grace."

"I'd be more worried about Darcy's," Steve says dryly.

Bucky spins toward the door, cursing as one foot somehow catches the other and he stumbles. Windmilling his arms, he fights in vain against the pull of gravity tugging him down, back toward the already damaged cake. He squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the crash of the trolley and the feel of smashed cake breaking his fall, but like always, betwixt one breath and the next, Steve is clasping steadying hands around his flailing arms and pulling him back upright before he can compound the disaster.

 _"Thank you,"_ Bucky whispers breathlessly, tipping his face up to Steve's.

"You're a worry, Bucky Barnes," Steve sighs playfully, brushing a tendril of hair from his face.

"You know it was your fault," Bucky laughs shakily. "As usual."

"Mhm. And you know if you want to be swept off your feet, all you have to do is ask," Steve murmurs, drawing small circles on Bucky's upper arm with his thumb. 

"Perhaps somewhere away from the cake," Thor adds. "I'm not sure it can sustain more damage and stay standing."

Steve's glittering eyes turn hard as they lift from Bucky and fix on Thor. "What the hell happened? Please tell me you didn't ruin the cake on purpose just to have a reason to get Bucky alone again."

"I would not risk wrath and ruin for the chance to steal your omega, Steve—no offense, Bucky."

"None taken," Bucky chirps honestly, too giddy at the ' _your omega_ ' to focus on anything else.

"It was an accident; an errant limb caught the trolley amidst the throes of passion."

"You were having sex in—" Steve stops himself, shakes his head, and sighs heavily. "Of course you were. Offering Bucky a spot in your bed and then having sex with someone else in the kitchen not two hours later, that's got to be a record even for you," Steve says shortly. He moves to stand beside Bucky, sliding his hand across his back to curl around his waist before guiding him forward toward the cake.

"Well, it seemed that Bucky's lack of accommodation had been solved by your obvious intention to keep him warm for the night," Thor grins. "Though my offer still—" He breaks off at Steve's low growl and holds up his hands in surrender, "—was completely inappropriate, you're right, and I apologize. So perhaps now we can focus on the problem at hand? The cake?"

Bucky risks a peek up to Steve and his stomach does a double back flip at the thoughtful look knitting his brows together. He had almost made it through the whole trip without Steve being any the wiser to his slight reservation error, but Thor's innocent slip of the tongue may have just put paid to his hopes of keeping it that way.

Necessity may be the mother of invention, but panic is the mother of improvisation, and Bucky slips out of Steve's embrace and heads to the kitchen doors.

Steve takes a step forward as if to follow him. "Bucky? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just give me one second. Wait there." Bucky exits the kitchen as covertly as he's able and moves to the reception's main entrance. His heart is in his throat at the possibility of being caught exiting an out of bounds area, but no one gives him a second glance. The guests not doing the Macarena on the dance floor are engrossed in conversation with other guests—no doubt trying to narrow down their preferred partner for the night—and Darcy and Loki are indulging in some very impressive PDA.

After sneaking another glance around to make sure no one is watching him, Bucky grabs one of the lavish bouquets from the golden columns decorating the entranceway and drops it to his side, using his body as a shield to hide it should any curious gazes drift his way as he rushes back to the kitchen.

"Alright, so… I have an idea."  
  
Thor's eyes dart from the bouquet to the cake before a wide smile splits his lips, and he claps his hands together delightedly. "And it is a _splendid_ idea!"

Steve chuckles and shakes his head fondly. "You are something else. What do you need us to do?"

Bucky grins. "How are your knife skills?"

The three of them work together in focused silence—Thor and Steve cutting stems, pruning leaves and thorns, and Bucky placing the flowers. It works out better than he'd been expecting, managing to arrange the blooms in an aesthetically pleasing cluster over the bottom layer, hiding the cracked fondant, exposed buttercream, and red velvet cake below.

'Huh. It actually doesn't look half bad," Bucky says, slotting the last sprig of green and white baby's breath in behind a spray of delicate white rosebuds.

"It looks beautiful," Steve corrects, coming up behind Bucky and wrapping his arms around his waist tightly. "You did an amazing job, thank you. Thor hardly deserves it, but I'm sure Darcy will appreciate it very much."

That giddy happiness is back fizzing through Bucky's body, and he leans into the warm embrace, hugging his arms around Steve's. "Maybe I've finally found my calling. I should pursue a career in emergency cake repair."

"Oh, no, Buck. I think you're precisely where you belong," Steve murmurs against his cheek.

Bucky knows hoping Steve didn't feel the shiver trembling through him at the words is too much to ask, but for once, he doesn't mind. Steve's arms are starting to feel like home, warm and safe and comforting, and he knows it's pointless to pretend otherwise.

"I'm going to take this out before history repeats itself with you two in here," Thor laughs, grabbing the trolley handle and starting to wheel the cake out. "The cutting is in fifteen minutes, though, so you might want to rethink your plans or make it quick."

"Mmm, that's not going to happen," Steve husks out as Thor disappears through the kitchen doors. "I plan to spend hours taking you apart," he hums. "If that's okay with you."

"Uhh… y-yeah, that's… that sounds good," Bucky grinds out as Steve works on sucking a matching mark into the left side of his neck. “Wh-whatever you want… _Sir_.”

Bucky squeaks as Steve lifts and turns him in one swift, smooth motion and carries him to the counter. The deep growl is still throbbing through him when his ass lands on top of the bench with a hard smack. Eager fingers curve and claim, digging into the flesh of his ass before they jerk him forward. His suit pants offer no resistance and his body collides against Steve's with a hard thump. It shocks the breath from his lungs, his body reeling from being manhandled as much as feeling the straining fabric of Steve's dress pants pressing against his own.

"What did I tell you about using that word, hm?" Steve grinds his hips slowly, but with so much fierce intent it makes Bucky whimper. "You want me to rip this suit off you and take you right here, right now? Want everyone to hear you begging so prettily for me? Is that what gets you wet, baby?"

"I—" Bucky gasps, "Oh, _fuck."_

"That word means you want to be sweet for me, that you need me to take care of you," Steve continues, voice rumbling against Bucky's ear, like it's a secret just for him. "And I will, baby, o'course I will. But not here. They don't get to hear you tonight; tonight, you're _mine_ , just mine. Understand?"

Bucky nods frantically… or, at least, he thinks he is. That heavy fog is back, and he's not sure the signals are making it out of his brain and into his body. But Steve doesn't seem to mind, bending to press a line of possessive, nipping kisses under his jaw, the rasp of beard and scrape of teeth setting his nerves on fire.

"I've waited for this for too long, Buck. Dreamed about it, about spending some real _quality time_ with you, dreamed about what you'd taste like leaking on my tongue."

A whole-body shudder rips through Bucky, but as his mind parses Steve's words, two pierce the euphoric cloud of lust inside him, and a chill shivers down his spine.

_Quality time._

The words are familiar, sharp, needling at his brain.

Steve straightens and brushes a hand through Bucky's hair, tucking loose strands behind his ear. "I'm going to tell Lo' we're leaving early. I'll be right back."

_Loki._

Memories burst free like the sun appearing from behind a cloud, burning away the remaining wisps of fog.

 _“No,”_ Bucky blurts.

Steve pauses, mid-turn, and raises a questioning brow. "You want to stay?"

"N-no, sorry, I mean… um, could I do it? If—if that's okay?"

Steve cocks his head to the side, brows furrowing. "Something's wrong."

Bucky shakes his head quickly, forcing himself to hold Steve's assessing gaze. If he looks down now, he knows no amount of protesting later will satisfy the questions simmering in Steve's eyes. He presses his hands between his thighs to hide the tremble and tries to ignore the guilt flooding his belly.

"No, it's nothing. I just… he was nice to let you bring me here, and to the buck's party and I'd like to thank him. I won't have a chance in the morning… "

"We can both talk to—"

"No," Bucky .cuts in. "I mean, I don't want him to think I'm saying it just because you're there and don't genuinely mean it, you know?"

Steve searches Bucky's face as if he suspects he's lying but seeking some form of visual confirmation. But the tension between his brows ease after a moment and he nods slowly. "Yeah… okay. Of course you can, that's real sweet, Buck. I'll wait for you outside."

Bucky's shoulders sag, his breath rushing from his lungs in relief. "Yeah, okay. I'll only be a minute."

"You better be," Steve smiles as he tucks his hands under Bucky's armpits and lifts him down from the counter. "Don't want to waste any more time, we don't have enough as it is."

Steve's hand on his lower back as they leave the kitchen burns like a brand, and he steps away from it the minute they're back in the hall, moving with purpose to the long table where Loki is standing, talking to Darcy.

Bucky twists back once, watching Steve's retreating back heading in the opposite direction. He forces himself to take a deep breath, hoping it will calm his racing heart.  
  
It doesn't.

He's probably being stupid again, overthinking… but he can't shake the dread bleeding out into his chest, the sense that his castles in the sand are all about to be washed away.

Bucky increases the length of his strides, eating up the ground quickly as Loki moves away from the table and heads to the bathroom. There's not a single moment where Bucky considers stopping his momentum, too wound up to worry about the common courtesies of not cornering a near-stranger in a public restroom.

Loki is swinging open the door to the middle stall, but shock pulls at his features as he spins on the spot to face Bucky when he charges into the room.

"What you said this morning, about Steve spending _quality time_ with me," Bucky blurts with absolutely no preamble, "about the clock striking midnight. What did you mean?

"This is hardly the—"

 _"Please."_ Bucky should be mortified at his level of desperation, both in his actions and his voice, but he needs to know, needs to assuage the doubts in his head before he offers his body and heart to Steve in a way that there's no coming back from. _"Please, Loki."_

Loki stares at him for a long moment before the resigned sigh makes his chest fall. "This place is a bubble, Bucky. It's safe and romantic, but it isn't real—it's a _fairy tale. N_ ot just for you, but for him, too. We made sure there was no press, no photos to be used against him later. Steve can…" he pauses, lips turning down at the corners.

Bucky is pretty sure his heart stops, its ability to keep beating hanging on Loki's next words. "He can _what?'_

Something turns soft in Loki's eyes… something that looks an awful lot like pity. "He can _experiment_ to his heart's content without fear of fallout. But the spell is broken at midnight, the carriage becomes a pumpkin again, and Cinderella… " He lifts his hand, gesturing toward Bucky. "The minute you go back, the bubble bursts, the fantasy is over. Steve barely made it through the last scandal, he won't survive another one; he won't survive _you._ The world may be taking baby steps forward into more progressive attitudes, but Hollywood is dragging its heels. _Captain America_ and the male omega consort?" Loki snorts and shakes his head. "Even if he decides this is something he's into, he can never actually be with you. Dark secrets have a way of finding their way into the light eventually, and if this comes out, it'll be the end of his career. So have your fun, take your pleasure, live out your wildest, filthiest fantasies tonight, but know when the two of you leave this place everything else has to stay behind."

With each new word, the aching emptiness inside Bucky grows, burning away his hopes and dreams and desires, leaving nothing but ashes in their stead. He nods slowly, trying to push his lips up into a smile. He's not sure he manages it, his face—no, his entire body feels terrifyingly numb. "Th-thank you, Loki," he rasps, his voice sounding oddly far away and tinny to his own ears. "Oh, and um, congratulations on the bonding."

Loki gives him a small, sad smile. "For what it's worth, I _am_ sorry, Bucky." He turns away, disappearing into the cubicle, and the click of the lock catching echoes in Bucky's ears like a death knell.

Turning toward the door, he catches sight of himself in the mirror and stops abruptly. He looks like a completely different person than when he'd been in here last—the flushed cheeks now pallid and the feverish light gone from his eyes, leaving them dark, empty… nothing but the ghosts of dreams staring back at him.

_His ridiculous pipe dreams._

He'd been stupid to think Steve wanted him—for more than a night, at least. The flirtation, the filthy words… Steve had practically spelled it out for him. _'_ _Tonight, you're mine.'_ Tonight. Steve had been dreaming about tonight because tonight is the only time they can be together. This whole trip has been one red flag after another, but he might as well be fucking colorblind.

Pushing through the door, he winds through the crowd without seeing a single face, his feet carrying him to Steve without thought. The cold wind whips the loose hair across his face the second he steps out of the doors, but he doesn't bother even trying to tame the wayward strands. The storm has well and truly set in for the night, the roar of rain pounding the roof and structures around them audible now without the thumping music of the reception.

"There he is," Steve says warmly, holding out his hand. "I was just about to come looking for you."

Bucky stares down at the offered hand. It's perfect, of course, just like the rest of Steve—large but gentle, warm and safe and waiting.

He could take what Steve's offering, take the one night and be thankful for it. It's just how Nat said it would be: a hot fling with enough fantasy fodder to keep his hand busy for years. It's tempting, god, it's _so_ tempting, and maybe if he weren't halfway to being hopelessly head over heels for Steve he could do it… but he _is_. His heart won't survive getting everything he wants for one perfect night only to have it ripped away from him when the sun rises. He wants giving himself to Steve to mean something more than just fulfilling a curiosity, being a notch in a belt or a checkmark on a bucket list.

"We need to talk," Bucky mumbles, twisting his own hands together anxiously.

Steve's hand drops, along with his face, and he takes a step closer. "What's wrong? Did Lo' say something to upset you?"

"Oh, no, he was… he's great."

Steve's brows pinch tighter, confusion pressing into anger. "Was it Thor? I can—"

"Steve, no, it's not Thor or Loki. This isn't about anyone else; it's just me… just _us."_

A giddy giggle is all Bucky hears before he's being propelled forward into Steve's chest, but from the corner of his eye he sees a blonde racing past him with a pretty redhead in tow. Steve's hands are curling around his waist again as if drawn by a magnetic force, and Bucky has to fight against the instinct just to give in and melt into the touch.

"Oops, sorry! Excuse us," the redhead calls over her shoulder, following the blonde down toward the ceremony area, to where Bucky had been wrapped around Steve not long before. He watches them go, wondering if their night is going to turn out how they're hoping, riding the high of new affection, or if their reality will crash and burn like his.

"Buck…"

Bucky stumbles out of Steve's grasp, shaking his head sadly, watching Steve's fingers curl down to his palms before they fall to his sides. "You were right."

Steve glances to the reception doors then nods his head toward the elevator, waiting for Bucky to start moving and then falling into step beside him. "What was I right about?"

"Everything," Bucky says miserably once they're far enough away from the reception entrance to avoid being overheard by any further deserters. "That first day at FireHouse, you said we should just stick to the professional-only relationship. You knew this—" he gestures around them "—would make things confusing otherwise. And it did," he huffs out a dark laugh. "Everyone else here, well, maybe not everyone, I don't know how many are in a boss-employee relationship, but I'm assuming most of them aren't, so most of them can afford a one night stand. But if we do… what we were going to do, no good can come of it. Uh, fuck, I mean," he squeezes his eyes shut and turns away, dashing forward, trying to escape the fantasies of Steve coming now painting the back of his eyelids. His escape is thwarted by the elevator and by sheer force of habit, he reaches out to jab the button.

The sound of the storm drowns out Steve's steps, but Bucky can _feel_ him move closer, close enough to displace the air around him, close enough for him to smell the cloud of whiskey and vanilla that makes his head swim.

The doors to the elevator open and Bucky steps inside automatically, then turns to see Steve follow him in. He wraps his arms around himself and stares straight ahead as Steve moves into place beside him, careful not to touch. The door slide closed, and Bucky startles at their reflection in the shiny silver finish, the truth staring him in the face as his stomach drops when the car lurches into motion. How could he have even thought he'd have something more to offer Steve than a warm, willing hole, and how could he have thought Steve would be after anything more than that in the first place?

Bucky's stomach yo-yos again as the elevator comes to an abrupt stop, and he moves from the claustrophobic box ahead of Steve, taking five steps before he stops on a dime and spins, staring up into Steve's pinched face.

" _This_ is why I don't like bondings," he blusters. "Everyone gets drunk on alcohol and pheromones and then makes bad choices. But we're not everyone else," he says quietly, the frustration breaking as he stares into those beautiful eyes. _"You're_ not everyone else. You're my boss, and I have to work for you tomorrow… Not even _have_ to, but _want_ to. I love this job, Steve. I like being useful. And I know you could pick up your own dry cleaning, sort your fan mail or walk Winter, but I like making your day easier and having a purpose in mine. I don't want to risk losing that." _  
  
To risk losing you._

"I would never let anything that happens between us personally affect your professional status, Buck," Steve says earnestly. "Nothing has to change."

Bucky's heart drops to his feet and then keeps falling, all three floors until it crash-lands in the dirt below. He knows Steve is trying to reassure him, but the heartfelt words only prove his worst fears. He had meant every word he'd uttered in FireHouse on that first day; he could share Steve with the world and would do so happily if only he had a small piece for himself. But Steve's not offering anything beyond tonight; he just wants a piece of Bucky.

"I'm sorry, Steve. I can't do this."

Steve nods sharp and quick before turning away. The tension knotting his muscles together is visible even through the layers of expensive fabric as he strides the rest of the way to his room without a backward glance. Bucky watches him fish the key from his pocket, unlock the door and hold it open, waiting.

Bucky rushes to catch up, but pauses on the threshold when Steve doesn't so much as glance at him, staring out over the balcony, attention fixed on the storm that has nothing on the one blowing over his face.

"Th-that's it? You aren't going to say anything?" Bucky asks quietly, but his breath hitches when those stormy eyes lock on his.

"There's nothing left to say, is there? I'm not going to try and change your mind, to convince you to be with me. I want you, Buck. I've wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you in that stupid autograph line and you had me sign your arm. I thought after what happened downstairs…" He shakes his head gently. "But it doesn't matter. You've made your choice. I will respect it."

Bucky's mouth drops open. _The autograph line?_ His brain stalls, unable to process the fact Steve had thought him anything but a complete imbecile during their first encounter. Still, every word Steve says just piles more weight to Loki's assertion that the only connection he wants with Bucky is a purely physical one.

"Come inside. I'll grab your bag and then I'll walk you to your room."

Bucky's legs are moving the minute Steve had beckoned him to, but he jerks to a stop abruptly, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. _Oh, shit._ With the… well, _everything_ that has happened, he's completely forgotten about having nowhere to sleep tonight. Thor is decidedly not an option, and the lobby isn't exactly ideal with the rain and lack of blankets.

"Um. About that…"

After pressing the door closed against the buffeting wind, Steve turns to look at him. "About what?"

"I—I don't… umm…" Bucky grimaces.

"Bucky?"

"IkindamessedupthereservationsandIdon'thavearoomfortonight," Bucky rushes, twisting the hem of his jacket between his fingers to stop himself burying his face in his hands.

Steve's face is unreadable as he stalks toward Bucky slowly, stopping close enough that he can surely feel the heat radiating from the furnace Bucky's entire face has become. "Did you ask to stay in Thor's room?"

"What?" Bucky squeaks. "No! I swear!"

"But you did tell him."

"Well… yeah," Bucky confirms reluctantly. "But I didn't _mean_ to; it just… kind of slipped out."

"And you didn't think it was something _I_ should know?" Steve's voice is strained.

"I… Yeah, I know I should have told you, but I didn't want you to know I messed up the first job you gave me," Bucky replies honestly, lowering his eyes to the carpet. "I didn't want to disappoint you."

Steve's quiet for a long moment, and Bucky can feel the weight of his gaze crushing down onto him, but he can't bear to look up into those eyes and see the disappointment he had tried so hard to avoid.

"Do you want the first shower?" Steve asks finally.

Bucky's eyes flick up so quickly they roll up in his head a little, and he blinks rapidly before settling them on Steve. There's no disappointment to be found in that gorgeous face; in fact, there's no… _anything_. Steve's face is entirely blank, neutral but for the slight square set to his jaw.

_"Sh-shower?"_

"Or did you want to go back downstairs now we're not… no longer have other plans? I know it's early, but so is our flight. I thought after last night, the extra few hours of sleep would be welcome. But if you'd prefer to do something else…"

We. Sleep. _Oh, no_. "I—you— _we_ —" Bucky swallows against the sudden dryness of his throat. “I can’t stay _here_.”

Steve stiffens, eyes narrowing. "Why not?"

 _"There's only one bed,"_ Bucky gestures to it redundantly, and oh, shit, was it always that small? What is that anyway? A queen? A double? For as much room as Steve's larger-than-life body is going to demand, it might as well be a single. And, oh, great, now he's hyperventilating.

Steve folds his arms across his chest, the voice rumbling from it riding the edge of defensiveness. "It's fine, Bucky. The bed is big enough for us both, and despite the display downstairs, I _can_ control myself; I won't hurt you."

"No, I know you won't," Bucky rushes. "That's not what—I didn't think you couldn't, I just don't want this to be, uh, y'know, awkward…"

Steve's dark laugh is entirely without humor. "You were moaning my name downstairs while I ground my thigh against your cock; I think a little awkwardness going forward is to be expected."

"Ah, yeah, right," Bucky mumbles, locking his knees to keep his quivering ass from hitting the floor.

"So, the first shower?"

Bucky would do almost anything to relieve a little pressure in the shower right now, then climb into his pajamas, and sleep for a solid twelve hours, and… _shit._ He can't stifle the groan as his mind's eye fills with the image of the pajamas he had packed for the trip, his favorite set; the ones Nat had given him last Christmas—super soft, bright pink jersey fabric, with tight _, very tiny_ pants, and an oversized, long sleeve top with a glittery unicorn printed on it under the ' _Bitch, I'm fabulous!'_ slogan.

"Bucky?"

"Oh, no, t-that's okay, you go ahead. I uh, I'm more of a, um, morning shower person if that's okay." Bucky cannot end his night parading around in front of Steve in slutty, immature, inappropriate sleepwear… especially not with a raging hard-on.

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm, yeah, yep. Knock yourself out. Or, no… don't do that… one concussion a year is probably a good limit to stick to," Bucky offers a crooked grin, but his attempt at impromptu levity falls flat. "I just mean… nope, it's all yours."

Steve's face remains impassive as he shrugs out of his jacket. "Okay." He drapes it over a chair before grabbing his bag. "I won't be long."

Bucky waits until the bathroom door closes before dropping to his knees and rifling through his own bag, searching for something to wear, but he'd followed Nat's advice and made a list of what he needed to bring and had stupidly stuck to the fucking plan. His choices are down to wearing the suit to bed, his clothes from yesterday, which… _no_ , or let tomorrow's clothes pull double duty.

The bubble of laughter rises high into his throat as the sound of water falling drifts out from the bathroom. An hour ago, Bucky was sure he'd be getting fucked tonight… he just hadn't expected it to be by life.

With no other choice, he grabs his Pj's from the bag and drops them on the bed, pulling his suit off quickly. He hesitates when he gets to his Omegaware. He's only got one more set for tomorrow, but the current pair are barely holding their own after the night's events. A bang from the shower makes him jump, and he makes an executive decision, stripping the underwear off before shoving them into the plastic bag filled with his dirty laundry, then rolls it up, trying to trap the scent inside. It's less than ideal, but it's his only option. He rolls the suit up and stuffs it into his bag.

The sound of the water shutting off sends Bucky's pulse skyrocketing. He scrambles to pull on the tight, small pants, tucking his hard dick down, trapping it against his leg in the slim hope it gets the idea that it's sleep time, and tugs the shirt over his head. Running his fingers through his hair, he yanks the band free and snaps it over his wrist before he grabs his bag, zips it closed and flings it in the direction of the couch.

A little dizzy from the sudden surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins, he jumps onto the bed, reefing the covers up enough to kick his feet beneath them, and shimmies down under the blankets until they are covering the ' _fabulous'_ on his shirt. He dabs the contacts from his eyes and discards them on the side table as indecision tears at him. He should have asked what side Steve slept on. The sound of the light flicking off makes his decision for him, and he turns onto his side, scoots as close to the edge as he can, curls up, and squeezes his eyes shut just as the bathroom door opens.

"Bucky?"

It takes everything in him to keep his eyes closed, pulling in slow, even breaths—his best approximation of sleep—and tries to track Steve's movements through sound alone, but it's a lost cause; he can hear nothing above his own blood roaring in his ears.

The light bleeding through his eyelids suddenly disappears, and he freezes momentarily, holding his breath until remembering he's supposed to be asleep, not dead, and he fills his lungs again, slow and steady, and his heart finally starts to settle into a more sustainable rhythm.

Soft rustling fills his ears, and Bucky can tell Steve isn't going to be copying his slithering into bed technique, actually taking time to work the blanket edges loose.

Bucky can picture it so clearly—though he really should have peeked when Steve came out of the bathroom because, in his mind, Steve is gloriously naked, water droplets sliding lazily down the enticing paths chiseled between those amazing abs, following the dark trail of hair down to—  
  
_Nononono._  


He drives his teeth into his lip as the mattress dips, Steve's substantial weight sinking onto it, and then his fantasies wither and bloom anew as he feels the unmistakable texture of sweatpants brushing over his leg and warm, naked skin slide against his arm.

Bucky shoves a fist into his mouth and bites down hard, pressing his teeth deeper, _deeper,_ trying to forcibly shunt some of the sensory input in his brain from pleasure to pain. His dick is so hard he wants to cry or reach down and jerk himself off—it would only take a stroke, maybe two, or he could just flop onto his belly and rut against the mattress, pretend he's asleep and grind one out… maybe then he'd actually get some sleep. With the hard body behind him smelling of vanilla and possibilities, the hardness throbbing against his leg, and his aching, quivering hole begging for _Steve's_ hardness, his chances of getting any rest tonight are less than a snowflake surviving more than a minute in hell.

The mattress shifts under him again as Steve moves, skin and fabric dragging against him, a frustrated groan rumbling from that broad, _naked_ chest and shooting straight to Bucky's dick.

Gritting his teeth, he starts imagining a field of sheep, making them vault over a hurdle as he listens to Steve's breathing deepen and even out. By sheep number fifty-seven, he's taken to making them rainbow-colored, and by sheep number two hundred and four— _George —_he's given them names. But after sheep three hundred and twelve, everything goes blissfully, mercifully black.

Bucky whimpers as Steve's hands tangle in his hair, tugging harshly, jerking his spit-slicked cheek up off the rough sheets.

"Steve, please," Bucky begs again, grinding his weeping dick down against the bed, desperate for some relief. The stinging slap across his ass makes him wail, the spike of pleasure sending hot tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Get it up. C'mon, you know how I like it, baby. Up on all fours for me," Steve growls.

"Y-yes, Sir," Bucky gasps. His exhausted limbs tremble as they take his weight, but knowing he's pleasing Steve is enough to keep him from collapsing again.

Steve's been fucking him for hours, stopping every time he's close to coming, wrapping a big hand around his small dick and strangling it back from the brink, waiting knot deep inside him, not moving no matter how much he cries and begs, holding him tight until his orgasm recedes, and then starts fucking him back toward the insurmountable peak.

It's torture, it's _perfect,_ it's everything he thought it would be, and so, _so_ much more.

"Good boy. That's it, arch that back for me, show me that pretty cunt," Steve purrs approvingly as Bucky presents, tilting his hips back as high as he can, shivering when Steve's hand rides the curve of his spine, stopping to press down just above his ass. "So beautiful like this, baby. You're so wet for me. Is your little hole ready for more?"

 _"Please,"_ Bucky begs, spreading his legs wider, feeling himself gape as his own slick and Steve's precome dribbles from his hole, pooling on and dripping from his balls.

"Please what, baby?"

"Please, _Sir,_ please, please fuck me," Bucky chokes out wetly, the tears dripping down his face thickening his voice.

"Yeah, there it is, that's my sweet boy," Steve grunts as his hands find purchase on Bucky's hips and drag him back onto his thick cock as he slams forward, quick and hard, forcing Bucky's already straining rim to stretch around the first rise of his knot.

Steve's cock is incredible—it's _everything_ —so long and fat, carving out space inside Bucky's body like he fucking _owns_ it. The rough drives deep into his gut empty the air from his lungs with each thrust, carrying out high, raw _'ah ah ah's'_ that Bucky barely recognizes as his own voice, each pitiful sound punctuated with the stinging slaps of flesh on flesh, Steve spanking his ass soundly without even taking a hand to him.  
  
"Jesus, Buck. You're so fucking tight for me, making me feel so good, sweetheart. So sweet for your Alpha," Steve praises, the words dripping onto Bucky's skin, making him burn impossibly hotter.

His cock is hanging heavy and neglected between his shaking thighs, leaking freely onto the mattress, twitching with each sharp stab of Steve's cock. "Please—need it, need to—please let me, _please Sir_ ," he garbles, the spicy scent of Steve settling over his sweat-kissed skin, filling the room and his lungs until he's drowning in it. His balls are drawn up, tight and full, aching beyond pleasure, beyond pain, just agonizing pressure and fuck, he needs relief, needs to soak the sheets under him as he screams Steve's name.

Steve digs his fingers into Bucky's hips harder, pushing his knot a little deeper with each thrust, Bucky's rim clutching at it greedily each time, trying to suck it inside. "S'that poor lil cock need to come, baby? Need Alpha to make it feel good?"

"Yes—yessss, Alpha, Sir, _Steve_ , please—I can't, I can't—ohh, fuck, _plee-ee-ee-ease,"_ Bucky stutters through the frenzied pounding against his ass, Steve's punishing pace unrelenting.

Pressure releases from his hip as one hand lifts, and Steve bows over him, that sprinkling of chest hair rubbing deliciously over his back, pulling goosebumps to the surface of his skin as the free hand wraps around his throat. Bucky keens, raising his head and jutting his neck forward, seeking more pressure, but Steve loosens his grip, taking control as always, holding just firm enough for Bucky to feel properly collared—properly _claimed_.

And it's enough, too much, Bucky tenses his aching muscles, trying to stave off his orgasm until he hears the words, until he has _permission,_ but he knows soon it won't matter, the heavy pressure in his belly, the burning heat, the throbbing pleasure is going to force from his body any second.

"You've been so good for me," Steve coos, sounding completely unaffected as he ravages Bucky's body, rutting against his prostate with every stroke. "Alright, you can let that little dick feel good now. Make a mess for me, baby."

"Yesss," Bucky hisses as Steve's fingers press harder against the side of his throat. "Oh, Alpha, ah, _ah,_ I'm gonna come, gonna—oh, _ohh_ …"

"That's it, c'mon, baby, come for me, Buck, Bucky, Bucky—"

_”Ah..f-fuck, Steve —”_

"Bucky! Bucky! Buck—" Steve's growl rumbles into Bucky's ear. _"Bucky, wake up!"_

“Oh, _ow_ , fuck!” Bucky jerks fully awake, his eyes finding focus quickly in the soft morning light. His mind works to coalesce all the sensory data screaming through his body—from the sharp pain in his scalp and the strain in his arched, bared throat, to the intense pressure in his throbbing dick trapped against something warm and equally hard—all while he stares at the patch of dark, damp hair of Steve's armpit an inch from his face.

It takes only five rapid beats of his heart to put the picture together… and only one more to wish he hadn't.

Steve's hand, curled tight in his hair—and the reason for both the pain in his scalp and the strain in his throat—finally relaxes, and Bucky scrambles away from him, yelping when he tumbles off the edge of the mattress. He lands hard on the floor, somehow catching the blanket as he goes, pulling it down with him.

He paws at it, trying to use it as leverage to scramble to his feet, but succeeds only in tugging it down from the bed completely. Shoving it away from his body is like trying to wrestle an octopus underwater, but somehow he manages it and finally struggles to his feet.

"I _—_ I _—_ uuhhh." His eyes edge wide as they fix on Steve, laid out on the bed in nothing but a pair of obscenely-tented dark grey sweatpants. That sight alone would have made it difficult for him to remember his own name, but it's the sight of the twin stains—one the bed beside Steve and one on his outer thigh—that has him forgetting how to form words completely.

He gapes at Steve wordlessly for what feels like a lifetime that will put his own to shame, his brain incapable of choosing between fight and flight and sticking on freeze.

"Oh, god, I'm so sorry, I was _—_ I was _—_ j-just dr-dreaming and, oh, _fuck._ " Bucky drags his face away from the impressive erection straining against the sweatpants, and up to Steve's face with supreme difficulty. He shifts his weight on his feet, his sodden pajama pants sticking to his skin as he moves.

"Yeah, I got that much," Steve husks out, dark eyes dropping low.

Bucky's hands fly to fold across his lap, groaning as the wet fabric rubs rough and high against his palm. "H-how long was I, uhh.." He nods down toward the damp patch on Steve's leg while keeping his eyes high.

"Rutting against me and begging me to let you come?"

 _"Uugg.."_ Bucky is sure he doesn't have a humiliation kink _—_ he'd know if he had a humiliation kink, right? _—_ but despite expecting his dick to wilt under the total mortification currently playing out in the shit show that is his life, it defies expectations, just twitching and drooling in response to Steve's comment. He should backpedal. He shouldn't care how long he was embarrassing himself, just knowing he was should be enough, but ever the glutton for punishment _—_ and fuck, do not think about that right now _—_ he squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

"I've been trying to wake you since you woke _me_ ten minutes ago."

Steve finally moves, pulling himself to a sitting position, and Bucky's eyes flick down of their own accord, tracing the _long_ line of Steve's cock and… his brain glitches. Suddenly, _unexpectedly_ , he's actually a little glad nothing happened last night because he's pretty sure the only place in his body Steve is going to fit is in his imagination.

"Hhhh…" Bucky coughs. "Um. Sorry about that _—_ " he waves vaguely to the mess he'd made of the bed, of Steve's pants and probably his leg beneath, and well, the whole damn situation, really, " _—_ I just… but I'm going to… go and, um…" _come,_ his brain supplies honestly and he grimaces, walking backward to the bathroom, "uh, shower now."

As carpet gives way to the cold tiles of the bathroom, Bucky presses up on tiptoes to save as much skin from suffering frostbite as he can manage, and finally lifts a hand from hiding the wet tent in his pants to push the door closed.

He pulls one of the stupidly small towels from the rack onto the floor and steps onto it eagerly before the attention of his cold feet shifts to the heat throbbing in his dick.

His tight pajama pants bunch and bite where he shoves them down his thighs, but he ignores the pain, too far gone to care. Wrapping one hand around his messy dick, he tugs at himself with frantic, graceless strokes, the slick sounds echoing off the tiles and walls, but he can't stop; he's too close, _needs to come_.

Searching blindly with his other hand, he seizes the last towel from the rack, tugging it free and shoving it to his mouth just in time to muffle his cries as he comes, thick and hot, painting the pink shirt white. He champs down on the rough fabric, grinding it between his teeth as he strips his dick, milking every last drop, twisting and wrenching as rolling static flickers in front of his eyes and his ass flutters and clenches down uselessly around nothing but the memory of Steve's thick cock fucking him open.

His trembling legs give out, and his fully spent body drops to the floor like a stone. The thin layer of fabric does little to soften the blow as his knees land hard on the tiles, and he cries out in pain before pitching sideways, and with a dull thump, his head connects with the wall.

The towel falls from his teeth as he spits out a curse, using both hands to push off the floor, shifting until he's leaning back against the door, his still-bound legs stretched out in front of him.

"Bucky? Are you alright in there?" Steve's concerned voice filters through the wood directly above him.

 _"Fine!_ " Bucky yelps and jerks his head skyward, half-expecting Steve's face to be peering down at him before he realizes he's leaning against the door. His shoulders sag but his heart keeps fluttering wildly in his chest. "I just…uh _—_ " _came so hard I nearly passed out_ " _—_ I'm okay, I'll be out in a minute."  
  
"Are you sure? If you need a hand…"

A hand? _Jesus._

Bucky's brain comes back online, throwing error logs at him like confetti. Steve heard the thump of his head, which means… Steve probably heard _everything_.

He tries his best to pull in quiet breaths through his nose, but that's shutting the gate after the horse has already bolted to the nth degree. He should have turned on the damn shower, or just come in here and sat on his hands until his dick had read up on the memo that humiliation is not hot, but no, Steve must have heard him in here, jacking it like a teenager with no self-control, coming after three fucking strokes.

"No, it's all good. I'll be out in a minute." Bucky tries to keep the utter dejection out of his voice, staring down at the tacky mess he'd made of himself. He's going to have to get into the shower like this, try to wash the come from his clothes before he shoves them in his bag—he's pretty sure carry-on luggage smelling like dried spunk and slick is frowned upon.

That’s _if_ he even makes it that far. Right now, drowning himself under the shower seems like a solid option.

He knows this should bring him some cold comfort, the one constant in his life since meeting Steve has been ending up on his ass. This is just a sign that everything is going to go back to normal. He can pretend that nothing out of the ordinary happened _—_ that he didn't kiss Steve, or wrap around him like a bitch in heat, and didn't almost come against his thigh more than once. And Steve… Steve can find someone else to take for a test drive once they're back in the city, maybe Scott…

Bucky's stomach rolls, and he pushes onto his hands and knees, scrambles forward and wrenches the glass door of the shower open before retching violently.

"Buck?"

The door swinging open pushes a gust of air over Bucky's exposed ass, and he drops his head down between his shoulders with a groan. Of course.

_Of fucking course._

The sharp note of something spicy fills Bucky's lungs, and he can feel the fresh slide of slick slipping from his body in response to the alpha scent, and he can't stop his hips twitching backward.

Bucky winces, knowing exactly what he must look like _—_ on all fours, practically _presenting_ , dripping slick, smelling like fresh come _—_ but he can feel Steve's gaze on him, pinning him in place.

Steve's low growl cuts off with the clearing of his throat. "Sorry, I should have knocked, but I heard… Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah." Bucky's voice is trembling as much as his body, but he can't do anything about either.

He pulls more of the thick air into his chest, trying to put a label on the scent, but his own dying blockers _are_ working overtime to neutralize his body's increase in pheromones and fight his efforts.

"Okay…good. That's… good. Sorry, I'll just… I'll be right outside if you need me," Steve husks.

Only when the door clicks closed does the tension in Bucky's body break, and his ass drops to his calves, and he straightens. He thumps the heel of his palm against his forehead, and again, and again. He's an absolute… fucking… disaster.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, frozen in abject mortification and inappropriate arousal before he curls his fingers around the frame of the glass cubicle, and uses it to pull himself to his feet while weighing up the pros and cons of resigning. He sets the temperature to one degree below scalding on the high-tech shower control and watches the water wash at least one embarrassment away.

By the time he's peeling his pants down his legs, his stay or go is a fifty-fifty split across the board, but as he climbs under the spray, he's come to the tentative decision to stick it out. After all, he's done it, he's finally managed to hit rock bottom, so now there's nowhere to go but up. It's not like it is even possible to humiliate himself more than he just did without actually dying of shame. And if it is… well, then he'll go willingly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> v. The accidental-wasn't-supposed-to-be-in-here smut at the end is all [Bex's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becassine/pseuds/Becassine) fault. So blame/thank her. It was going to cut from Bucky falling asleep to waking up, with nothing but empty space between, and then… well. You know what did, Bex.


	12. Warming The Bench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky gnaws on his lip nervously. He suddenly feels very, very stupid. This was a mistake; there’s no way he can tell Steve the truth. The truth is he’s completely, hilariously out of his league—Steve is smashing home runs while he’s warming the bench, having inappropriate thoughts about the size of Steve’s bat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I present thee with words. Please enjoy them—there's likely not going to be another update until the new year. Happy holidays if you celebrate them—have fun, be safe, be good to your fellow humans. <3
> 
> ii. ETA, I forgot to add this in and it's probably a bit late for a lot of people, but please be warned there is maximum secondhand embarrassment in this one. It has been rated 6 out of 5. (Sorry. Had to be done.)

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans.

“What's wrong now?” Nat steals two of Clint’s fries and pops them into her mouth.

Bucky slides his phone across the diner table toward Nat, but Clint grabs it first, clears his throat, and then reads the text out loud.

“Don’t worry about coming to set. Sick. Going home soon. Take the week. Steve.” Clint frowns at the message and smacks Nat’s hand as she reaches for more fries. “I asked you if you wanted your own, Romanoff. I don’t mind sharing with you, but you have to actually _share_ themmmf—” He breaks off as Nat shoves half a dozen fries into his mouth.

“He’s sick? That seems sudden. From all accounts he was feeling very perky a couple of days ago,” Nat smirks.

Not for the first time, Bucky regrets giving in to Clint and Nat’s pestering and sharing a blow-by-blow of his weekend five minutes into their lunch. Mindful of the people packed around them in the busy diner, he had left out certain moments like blowing his load in the bathroom before Steve had walked in, and the fact he was falling in love with him, but he had the sneaking suspicion that his friends had filled in the blanks.

Bucky’s been doing his best to pretend the weekend hasn’t changed anything, despite knowing from Steve’s radio silence on the way home that _everything_ has changed.

Whether because his plan had fallen through or his pride had been hurt or he’d lost interest when he couldn’t have what he wanted, Steve had barely looked Bucky’s way from the minute he’d stepped foot out of the bathroom to the moment he’d stepped into his apartment building. Bucky had wanted to break the wall of ice that had appeared between them, but at a loss of where to start he’d just kept his head down, his mouth closed, and tried to pretend he wasn’t dying inside.

Last night was spent tossing and turning, chasing sleep but never finding it, too wound up worrying about what the morning would bring. But the job list that greeted him when he finally dragged himself from bed was innocuous enough, though it was missing the sketches adorning the margins he’d come to look forward to, instead offering just a straight list of tasks in bullet point. It was much muchness of what he’s come to expect—running around to half a dozen designers uptown to collect outfits, pick up a few groceries and more liquor than usual, and call to confirm Steve’s upcoming appearance on a talk show. He’d only just finished walking Winter when he’d received a second text that had sent him spinning.

There were two dates and a list of hotels, along with the note to book two return flights and two rooms—one in Steve’s name and one in his own. Bucky felt a little chagrined at it being so explicitly stated so soon after his bonding hotel mix-up. The idea that Steve did not want to risk ending up in the same position enough that it warranted a separate mention had made Bucky’s chest ache.

Steve had created a bubble of personal space between them, and seemed committed to keeping the carefully constructed professional distance going forward… and it was all Bucky’s own fucking fault.

“He’s pulling away from me again,” Bucky sighs morosely, staring down at the untouched cheeseburger on his plate.

“But… isn’t that what you wanted?” Even through the mouthful of half-chewed fries, Clint sounds confused.

“No. Yes. No… I don’t know,” Bucky groans. “I want… I want _him_.” Bucky drops his head to the table, groaning at the resulting thump. “But I can’t have him,” he sighs.

“You should have—”

Bucky jerks his head up and glares daggers at Nat. “I swear if you say I should have slept with him I am going to scream.”

Nat’s lips curve up even as she makes a show of turning an imaginary key in an equally imaginary lock at the corner of her mouth.

“Maybe you should, B.”

“Should sleep with Steve?”

“Scream,” Clint chuckles. “You seem to have an awful lot of pent up energy. It might help.” He shrugs. “Couldn’t exactly hurt at this point.”

“Yeah, well, if I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop,” Bucky grumbles. Nat is right, he just doesn’t want to admit it. At least, not out loud. He hadn’t wanted Steve to pull away from him after… so he’d pushed Steve away before he could, instead. He should have just said yes, taken what was on offer—at least that way he could warm himself with memories instead of drowning in cold regrets.

Bucky snatches his phone back from Clint’s hands and stares down at the now blank screen. “It’s not—that doesn’t even really sound like him. He wouldn’t just be saying that, right? To avoid me? I wanted to go back to how things were before when everything was great, not _before_ before when I never saw him.” His gaze darts between the matching looks of sympathy on his friend’s faces. “Oh, god. I’ve fucked everything up, haven’t I?’

Clint and Nat share a glance before turning back to Bucky, shaking their heads in unison like some kind of single hive-mind entity.

“No, you did the right thing--”

“He probably _is_ sick,” Nat chimes in reassuringly. “Planes are notoriously bad for spreading germs. They’re basically tin cans with a half-assed filtration system. They’re worse now than they used to be when they had to scrub cigarette smoke from the air.” She turns to glare at Clint as he snickers. “What? I watched a documentary. It’s true. Besides, from what you said, Steve was all up in your business, trying to get all up in other things, why would he give up and move on so quickly?

“Because not everyone is happy to wait around forever, Romanoff, just on the off chance the object of their desire will give them a second glance,” Clint mutters.

“What would you know about it, Barton? The only thing you ever give a second glance is pizza.” Nat steals two more fries, poking her tongue at Clint before folding them into her mouth.

Clint stares at Nat for a long moment then shakes his head and pushes the plate toward her. “You are the stupidest smart person I’ve ever known,” he sighs finally, then turns his attention to Bucky. “Look, why don’t you just tell him how you feel? How you really feel. All you’re going on is what you think he thinks because of what his kind-of-brother told you. You’re playing a game of telephone, man, and you might just have your wires crossed.”

“No, I’m not and I don’t,” Bucky protests. “If he wanted me like I want him, he would have said something when I said we couldn’t have a one night stand; he would have said that he wanted more.”

“But did _you_ say anything to _him_ about wanting more than a one night stand?”

“I—” Bucky snaps his mouth shut as his brain runs a search through that night. He tries not to bristle as Clint smirks knowingly. “It was heavily implied,” he huffs. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t explicitly come out and said it, but he had done his best given the circumstances, and he deserves a goddamn medal at being capable of speech at all while Steve’s filthy words and searing touches had his brain leaking from his dick.

“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought. Ignore the text, hell, pretend you didn’t check your phone if he questions it, but, B, go and see him. Just tell him the truth.”

“I hate to say it,” Nat chimes in, “but bird brain is right. One of you has to make the first move or you’ll be circling each other forever. And since you were the one to tell him you wanted to keep things strictly professional, I think you’ve gotta be the one to sac up and tell him that isn’t what you really want after all.”

Bucky’s brain sends a double shot of adrenaline careening to his heart, and it starts trying to beat clear through his chest. The thought of saying that to Steve… It’s _terrifying_. “I… I don’t know if I can. What if he’s not interested? What if he really did just want that one night?”

“You can do this. It’s better to know, right? You’ll drive yourself crazy going over all the what-ifs.” Clint’s eyes dart to Nat before he leans back in his chair, a wry smile on his lips. “The worst that can happen is he’ll say he’s not interested in more and you’ll be miserable, but hey, you’re _already_ miserable.”

Nat gives Clint an assessing look, brows pinching thoughtfully. “What is it with you today? You’re actually full of good advice for a change.”

Bucky tries not to roll his eyes watching Clint shrug nonchalantly and look away, suddenly very interested in the activity around him. Clint is one to talk—he’s been secretly in love with Nat for years, though the only one it’s secret from is Nat. Still, his advice is sound. Except…

“Yeah, I _am_ miserable, but it could be worse.”

“How?”

“He could say he feels the same way.”

Clint's face twists in confusion. “Yeah, explain that one to me. How is that a bad thing?”

“Because we can never be together. Even if I did tell him that I’m fa—if I told him how I feel, and he, by some unholy miracle that defies explanation, feels the same, Loki said being with me would be the end of his career.” Bucky looks Clint squarely in the eye, challenging him to deny it. “Is that true?”

“B…”

“Is it?” Bucky presses.

“It would probably be the end of his career as he knows it, yeah. No big studios will want to risk alienating their base by casting an actor with a… a controversial personal life.”

Bucky tries not to slump in his chair, tries not to look like he’s just been punched in the stomach. He knew the answer before he asked the question. Knew it… but needed to hear the truth of it confirmed. The best-case scenario for him is the worst-case scenario for Steve.

“But Bucky, that is a choice that he has to make for himself,” Nat says gently. “And he deserves to know how you really feel for him so he can make it.”

Bucky can feel the truth in the words, but he _can’t_ tell Steve, he just can’t. Trading Steve’s happiness for his own? No. He can never have Steve.

_Oh._

“I’m an idiot,” Bucky breathes out softly.

He had been so worried about losing Steve after having him, but he’d been wrong. Steve was never going to be his to lose. He was never going to share Steve’s life in any way more than he is now, never have his heart. Steve had offered him something else but he’d been too stupid, too caught up in fairytales to accept it.

He’d been trying to protect himself, but it hadn’t worked—he’s just torturing himself. It’s not easier not knowing what it’s like to be with Steve, it’s just a different kind of pain, but he can be free of it—for a little while at least—when he’s in Steve’s arms… if there’s still a place for him there.

Bucky stands up abruptly, cheeks heating when his chair topples to the ground behind him. He rights it hastily and stares down at his friends, ignoring the matching looks of surprise. He tries for a smile, though it feels more like a grimace, and he’s pretty sure he’s going to be sick any second.

“I’m going to tell him!”

Nat recovers the quickest. “How you feel?”

“No, that I was wrong. That I should have said yes then but I’m saying yes now… if he still wants me.”

“Of course he’ll want you, but I thought that’s not what you wanted,” Clint frowns up at him.

“This is a fairytale.” The echo of Loki’s words feels heavy on Bucky’s tongue. “The fantasy is up when my contract ends. I’m not wasting any more time not taking whatever Steve’s offering.”

“And you’re going to tell him this right now?”

“Right now,” Bucky nods adamantly.

“You go get ‘im, B.”

Bucky nods again, but his body fights his brain’s command and his feet remain cemented to the ground.

“...Anytime now, Buckaroo,” Nat laughs.

“Yeah. Yep. I’m—”

“Oh, excuse me.”

Bucky staggers to the side as the tall beta bumps into him and uproots his feet. He lets the momentum carry him away from the table, throwing a wave over his shoulder at his friends, and heads for the exit.

He’s going. He’s going to see Steve and he’s going to take Steve’s offer… if it’s _still_ on offer.

...He just has to make one small detour first.

Bucky readjusts the bag cutting into his wrist before stacking the styrofoam containers of hot soup atop each other. He’s grateful for the tight seal of the lids as he props his chin on the topmost bowl to bracket them in place and eyes the _Do Not Disturb_ sign on the trailer door warily, suddenly unsure of his plan.

Shifting his weight on his feet, he fights against the urge to flee. He could run away and pretend he’d never come in the first place, but if he does that, he’ll be in exactly the same miserable spot as he is now… no, he’ll be worse off, he’ll be down a hundred and twelve dollars and some change because he bought out half of the pharmacy, stopped to get Steve soup—three kinds because he wasn’t sure what kind he’d like—and paid an uber to bring him to set.

Right now he has an excuse to be here despite being explicitly told to go home. If he waits, he’s not sure when—or _if_ —he’ll gather the courage again. He can let fate decide; if Steve is sleeping, he'll just leave the items on the table and let his cowardice cling to the sign that it’s not the right time, but if Steve’s awake… well, signs work both ways.

Bucky’s heart jackhammers in his chest as he makes his way up the stairs carefully but quietly. Pressing his chin a little tighter to the stack of containers he inches the door open and slips inside.

Mindful that being in Steve’s personal space is likely to trigger his human disaster mode again, he pivots on the spot slowly…

His jaw goes slack and so does his arms, and the bowls and bag crash to the floor, his brain stalling as he blinks stupidly at Steve. Steve who isn’t in bed, sick. Steve who looks very much like the poster boy for the opposite of sick… _healthy_ , his mind supplies belatedly. Yeah, that’s it. Steve looks very healthy, very much not asleep, and very, very naked from the waist down.

Steve freezes at the crash, with his torso and head still hidden within the upper piece of his costume. “Bucky?”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut but it’s too late, the imprint of Steve’s body—including the huge, perfect, enormous, gorgeous, fucking ridiculously large cock—is seared onto the back of his eyelids like an after image from staring at the sun, and _holy fuck_ why the hell was Steve worried about a photo of _that_ floating around? God, if it were his, he’d have it printed on a t-shirt or walk around naked, and oh, _oh…_ Steve’s not even _hard_.

Steve’s groan of pain as he starts struggling inside the tight fabric jolts Bucky out of his internal meltdown, and he steps over the mess on the floor, closing the distance to Steve but stopping short of actually touching him.

“Are you okay?” Bucky tries to wet his dry lips but it’s a wasted effort. “Are you—are you _stuck?_ ”

“Yeah.” Steve’s voice is muffled by the thick fabric of the costume as he stills again. “Could you help me get my right arm out, please?”

Bucky tries to swallow, but his mouth is too dry, his tongue too thick, and he just nods dumbly before realizing Steve can’t see him. “I—uh, yeah, I can do that,” he croaks, grabbing the bunched hem and working the tight fabric up, trying to ignore the warm, smooth skin brushing against his knuckles with each inch of give. With Steve contorting his body and Bucky tugging, they work the suit off, lifting it over his head and peeling the long sleeves down his arms.

Momentarily forgetting that Steve is now standing entirely naked before him, Bucky lifts his fingers to trail over the ugly red bruise marring Steve's right pec, spreading down and over his ribs. “Jesus. What happened?”

Steve stiffens under the touch but doesn't relax any when Bucky yanks his fingers back hastily. “Stunt went wrong.” He winces as he crooks his right arm, tucking it close to his body and using his left hand to drape the costume down in front of his crotch. “What are you doing here? Are you alright?”

“Me? Uh-huh, yeah, I’m good. I’m sorry, I know you said..." Bucky's courage deserts him, but he waves away the failure, more concerned about the pain dulling Steve's eyes. "Look, don't take this the wrong way, but you don't look fine—I mean, you know what I mean. That bruise and the way you're holding your arm. Do you need to go to the hospital? I can take you...but, I wouldn’t trust me in your car. I mean, I have a license, but I haven’t driven for years so it’s probably not a great idea. But, uh, I could call an Uber?”

Steve’s lips twitch up before he shifts again and they pinch down instead. “It’s okay, Bucky. It’s nothing to worry about. I’ve been checked over; there's no broken bones, internal bleeding, or anything serious enough to prevent me from coming back on Wednesday.”

“But serious enough for them to keep you off tomorrow?” Bucky challenges.

“Set has to be shut down for a safety audit after any accident. They’ve told me to take the day, get a massage and some rest. I was just getting ready to head home before…”

_Before I walked in and saw your massive cock._

Steve’s laugh breaks off abruptly and he winces, pressing his left hand to his ribs.

Bucky’s eyes edge wide enough to hurt before he squeezes them shut, and it takes five very slow, calculated breaths before he can open them. When he finally meets Steve’s gaze again it is with a contrite look and blazing cheeks. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

Those damn plush lips twitch before Steve nods, and Bucky drops his gaze to his feet. He fidgets, twisting his hands together anxiously. “Sorry,” he mumbles, peeking back up. “I didn’t mean to look, I just… I wasn’t expecting…”

Steve doesn’t answer—unless that flash of something in his eyes counts—and Bucky gnaws on his lip nervously. He suddenly feels very, very stupid. This was a mistake; there’s no way he can tell Steve the truth. The truth is he’s completely, hilariously out of his league—Steve is smashing home runs while he’s warming the bench, having inappropriate thoughts about the size of Steve’s bat.

“I could give you a massage,” he blurts. He can feel the blood draining from his face as his eyes edge wide, more shocked by his own words than Steve seems to be. But the silence stretches on and Bucky’s lips are moving again, trying to backpedal and seal off the bad ideas flowing straight from the inside of his head to the outside of his face. “Um, there’s no pressure, of course, you probably want a professional—I mean I _am_ qualified but it’s been a while and I’m probably rusty, probably get my effleurage and petrissage mixed up so if you’d rather—”

“Yeah,” Steve says, finally disrupting the babbling disclaimer. “That sounds great, Bucky. If you’re sure…”

“Oh. Yeah, uh-huh.” Bucky presses a hand to his throat. He’s not sure the rapid fluttering is his heart giving him a multitude of high-fives or he’s about to suffer a major coronary event, but if the odd ringing in his ears is any indication, it’s leaning toward the latter. And it’s because of that ringing that he completely misses the fact that Steve’s talking to him until a large hand cups his shoulder gently and he startles. “I—sorry. What was that?”

“I asked what you need me to do?”

“Ah, um.” Bucky tries to restart his brain, but at least eighty-five percent of his focus is fixed with pin-point precision on Steve’s hand which is still curled over his shoulder like he’s some prize claimed in a claw machine—a very gentle, very warm, absolutely fucking gorgeous claw machine.

“If you don’t want—”

“I need you in bed,” Bucky blurts before he clears his throat. “ _On_ bed, on the bed, I mean. Um, I think it’s the only place you’ll fit horizontally in here.”

Steve’s lips curve up at the comment but he nods seriously. “Okay. Anything else?”

“Pants.” Bucky does his best to ignore the heat creeping down his neck. “Normally I’d get you to s-strip down to your underwear and then cover you with a towel, but uh, failing that, pants are fine.”

“That I can do.” Steve turns away, heading toward the bed, giving Bucky an unobstructed view of miles of gorgeous skin, dusted with a few dark spots on his back, trailing down to the most amazing ass he’s ever seen.

Bucky’s never been much of an ass man—even though he can appreciate the inherent beauty in the curve of them—but he’s pretty sure he’s just become a convert. For as good as Steve’s ass looks in clothes, out of them it is so spectacular he wants to cry. It is unjust for one human to be so fucking perfect.

Unable to close his eyes against the eighth wonder of the world, Bucky swivels on the spot, wholly removing the temptation from his field of vision. He can hear drawers opening and closing, the shuffle of fabric, and a few muted groans that make him fight to hold his position.

His mind is conjuring up all kinds of delicious imagery to go with the soundtrack, and the knowledge that Steve is behind him, _naked_ , makes his mouth go dry.

_Dry._

Oh. _Shit._

“I don’t suppose you have any oil around here?”

There’s a soft bang and Steve curses. “Okay, I’m ready, you can turn around,” he says, voice holding much more amusement than it ought to be capable of carrying in Bucky’s opinion. “What kind of oil do you need?”

Bucky spins on the spot and forgets how to form words. “Uhh—” Steve is lying on his back down the center of the bed, head resting on his left hand, right one by his side, with nothing but the stretch of black boxer briefs covering the miles of flawless skin. The modesty the underwear provides is undone by the fact they do nothing but drag Bucky's attention straight to the tantalizing scrap of fabric like the black bars in premium porn.

“Bucky?”

“A-any," Bucky croaks. "Baby oil or Cooking oil? Vegetable, coconut, olive? That’s probably not… um, even lotion can work in a pinch. Anything slippery.”

“Slippery?”

The signals sent from Bucky’s brain a good two minutes ago finally reach his feet and they stutter into motion, taking him to the bed. ’“Uhh, yeah. The skin on skin friction can be, umm, painful. Sorry, I should have asked before I got you… to lie down,” Bucky grinds out as he comes to a stop at the edge of the bed. “If you don’t have anything it’s okay, we don’t have to do—”

“Second drawer on the left,” Steve cuts in.

Bucky tries not to fidget under Steve’s gaze as he moves around the bed to the cabinets set into the trailer facade. Even with permission, his fingers tremble as they wrap around the small wooden knob on the right drawer. It slides open easily, and he peers down into it… and freezes.

“Will that work?”

Bucky stares down at the bottle of synthetic slick. The half-empty bottle. The implications hit him all at once, making _him_ slick up immediately. Oh. Oh. Oh, god. Steve’s used this… while in this bed, to… to…

“Bucky? Will that work?” Steve asks again, gruffly.

“Uhh, uh-huh. P-perfect.”

Though the bottle is cool in his hand, it burns like a brand. Praying Steve can’t feel the tremors skittering through him, he climbs onto the bed and knee-walks into position by Steve’s left hip. It takes everything in him to keep from looking down at that black strip of fabric—at the bulge beneath.

The bottle snapping open is deafening in the quiet room but to Bucky, it sounds like barriers breaking. If Steve trusts him with this, it must mean there's still hope.  
  
The slick is cool as he pours it into his cupped palm, but it’s the fruity scent that makes him fumble the bottle, almost dropping it and spilling it all over the comforter. Bucky curses under his breath as he recaps the bottle quickly with his free hand and tries to get his heart under control.

“Something wrong?” Steve asks, narrowed eyes fixed on him.

Bucky shakes his head. “No, it’s just—” _your lube smells like peaches… like_ me “—it’s all good.”

The sloppy sound of the slick fills the room as he rubs his hands together, using body heat and friction to warm it up. In normal circumstances, he’d have a bottle of oil warming in a pot of water… but this is anything _but_ normal. Keeping his eyes fixed on Steve’s chest—well away from his eyes—Bucky ignores the obscene sounds and tries not to think about what he’s using, just shifts his focus to what he’s doing, letting his muscle memory kick in.

“This shouldn’t hurt; if it does, it means something’s wrong, and I need you to tell me and I’ll either stop or decrease pressure. Okay? If you don’t, I could hurt you more than help.”

“Sure, Buck. I’ll tell you.”

“Good. Okay. So, I’m just going to start with effleurages,” Bucky murmurs, trying to ignore the nickname, reaching over and putting his hands on Steve’s belly. He stretches up, lifting off his thighs, trying to reach to Steve’s shoulders. The muscles in his back twinge painfully, and he’s reminded why he quit this particular job. He shuffles on his knees, turning so they’re pressing against Steve’s side. It works, a little, his hands now able to reach past Steve’s clavicles, but he has to twist awkwardly when bringing his hands back down. He shifts again, huffing out a frustrated breath. Steve must think he’s completely incompetent.

“Is something wrong?”

“You’re too big—uh, too broad, it’s just… I can’t reach all of you from here. Maybe if I—”

“If you…?” Steve questions, arching a brow.

“Nevermind. I thought I could s-straddle you, but that's—it's not—this is fine, I'll jus _— oh!”_ Bucky squeaks as Steve sits up in one smooth motion, reaches out to grab his waist, and lifts him from the bed. Bucky spreads his legs as Steve moves him into position over the strip of black and sets him back down again.

“Like this?”

Bucky can feel the thick line of Steve’s cock nudging against him and he tenses his thighs painfully as he pushes up on his knees a little, readjusting so his entire weight isn't on Steve. “Uh, uh-huh.”

Steve lies back down on the bed, his hands sliding down Bucky’s hips before landing on the mattress on either side of them.

Bucky starts with effleurages, hands side by side riding up the center of Steve’s chest, separating to sweep over his pecs, then dragging over them, fanning over his ribs and meeting back together at his belly button. “These are just to warm up the muscles, sort of like stretching before working out.”

“Feels good,” Steve hums.

Bucky continues working his hands, finding the familiar rhythm, rocking up to stretch over Steve’s pecs, and back again when his hands dip back lower. Normally he’d be standing at the head of a massage table, working in reverse, pushing down the chiseled line of Steve’s abs and pulling back, dragging over his chest. It’s much too intimate like this, and he’s immensely grateful his jeans are providing at least a little cushion to hopefully hide his reaction to—for all intents and purposes—riding Steve.

“Were you a masseuse for very long?”

“No, not really. Nine months and then I messed up my back doing a deep tissue massage for the boss’s bit on the side. Ended up working retail at Christmas after that… not sure which was more painful,” Bucky laughs softly.

“And how does working with me compare?”

The _with_ not _for_ isn’t lost on Bucky, and he tries to keep the giddiness showing in his face. “I think you’re my favor **\--** ” he breaks off at Steve’s sharp gasp, and jerks his hands up. “I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”

“No, don't worry about it. It’s fine.”

Bucky frowns, keeping his hands off Steve’s skin. “You have to tell me, Steve. That was not a good noise.”

One corner of Steve’s mouth hitches up. “Actually… it was.”

“I… what?” Bucky’s eyes narrow on the light dusting of color brightening Steve’s cheeks.

“My nipples are very sensitive,” Steve murmurs. “And your hands feel very good.”

“Oh. Um, okay, yeah, that’s…” _Common_ , Bucky wants to say, but god, he can’t push the word from his lips, he’s too busy licking them, staring at one peaked little bud, trying to stop himself from just bending down and… “I’ll try to a-avoid them, sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Do what you normally would and ignore any sounds I make. I’ll tell you if I’m in pain or I want you to stop.”

 _Ignore any sounds._ Bucky wants to laugh. Yeah, no, that’s not happening. Now he knows that sound is pleasure not pain, he’s pretty sure no part of him is going to be able to ignore it. But he nods and places his hands back on Steve’s chest.

The conversation falls away, the only noises in the trailer are the soft breaths and Steve’s sharp inhales as Bucky’s slicked-up hands slide over his chest with each stroke.

Guilt burns in Bucky's belly. He could go around the stiff little peaks but instead, he’s purposefully dragging his fingers over them with each sweeping stroke as he rocks back in Steve’s lap, his own dick painfully hard as Steve firms beneath him.

The mood in the room has shifted to something heavy, and the illusion of the massage being anything but entirely self-serving is rapidly slipping away from him.

He should be kneading the muscles by now, digging his thumbs into them and working on the knots that are no doubt knitted together under golden skin, but Bucky is powerless against his need to keep drawing those sounds from Steve’s mouth, watching his hands fist the cover on the bed, feel the rise of another kind of knot rubbing between his ass as he rocks back and forth with each stretching, sweeping stroke.

He drags his hands down again, and Steve’s eyes squeeze shut as his nail drags over sensitive flesh.

_“B-Buck!”_

The unexpected moan of his name on Steve’s lips as the hard body beneath him bucks up, the swollen knot spreading his cheeks and forcing hard denim to rub over his wet hole has Bucky’s body drawing tight, pulled to the peak and just hanging there. Time has stopped, his heart has stopped, there’s nothing but the feel of Steve’s cock hard beneath him, and then hands are pressing into his hips, holding him down, pressing the swell of knot tighter against him, and he’s shattering into a million pieces.

He curls his fingers into the meat of Steve’s chest, rutting down as his cock jerks and empties, still trapped in his jeans.

“St-Steve! Oh, god, oh, oh, fuck, _fuck!_ ”

He’s mortified, he wants to stop, but he can’t, has to keep fucking down against Steve as he comes and comes and _comes_ , his endless orgasm tearing from him almost painful in its intensity. Only Steve’s hands on him keep him from collapsing as he rides it out, shaking, keening, gasping gulps of hot air into his lungs.

When the ecstasy finally breaks—receding like a wave inside him—it leaves him wrecked and heaving. His eyes open to find Steve’s face arranged in shock and he scrambles clumsily off Steve, off the bed.

Legs wobbly from his orgasm threaten to buckle but are galvanized by sheer panic, and he stumbles backward. “I—I—oh, fuck, I’m—” Crying out as his hip catches the edge of the table, he jerks to the side and slips on the scattered purchases he’d dropped earlier. He goes down hard, ass landing on the trailer floor beside the forgotten soup bowls.

“Bucky, stop!” Steve jerks to a sitting position on the bed, but Bucky shakes his head urgently and holds out one hand, fingers splayed wide.

His other hand, still slick with lube, slips on the bag from the pharmacy as he lurches to his feet. The mess of his release is cooling, turning tacky on his skin already, and he can’t even bear to look down to see if it’s soaking through his jeans. Heart in throat, trembling from aftershocks and shame, he does the only thing he can—he flees.

“I’m sure it wasn’t _that_ bad,” Nat tries reassuringly. “I’m sure he was… flattered.”

“You didn’t see his face—that was not flattery, that was confused horror and secondhand embarrassment,” Bucky moans into the cushion. He's been lying face down on the couch for the past two hours since he'd fled the trailer of shame. “Do I wait for him to fire me or should I quit preemptively?”

“Stop being a drama queen. You’re not quitting. Look, you went away with the guy, led him on, and then shot him down after getting him all hot and bothered and he didn’t fire you, right? He’s probably just shocked and dismayed you came on him instead of in him.”

Bucky stops trying to smother himself and raises his head to look at Nat. “ _In_ him? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t know?” Nat asks incredulously. “Don’t you ever read the magazines I leave here? Damn, Bucky.”

“No. I give them to my seventy-five-year-old neighbor, she makes collages with them. Why? What did I miss?”

“You remember that phone hacking scandal?”

Bucky's not sure he wants to hear whatever Nat’s going to say, but he presses his lips together and waits. He knows about the photo, of course, but Steve had said there had been something else, and the scandal Loki and Tony had mentioned had to be more than a nude; nudes are leaked or accidentally exposed all the time. He shouldn’t rely on tabloid fodder for answers, should have asked Steve, but... he's never going to see Steve again, so what does it matter how he finds out? Sucking his lip between his teeth, he nods slowly to Nat, though a pit begins forming in his belly.

“Okay, so you're not completely hopeless.” Nat raises her glass of wine and takes a long swallow, emptying it, and Bucky knows she’s drawing it out on purpose now she knows she has him hooked. “So you know a bunch of A-lister's phones were hacked, and a bunch of embarrassing photos and videos leaked. A lot of drunk make-outs, a few questionable selfies, a much-ridiculed golden shower video, a truth or dare involving licking peanut butter out from under an armpit, and…” Nat pauses to refill her glass.

“And? And what?” Bucky groans. “Which of those were of Steve?” Tucking his fingers between his hip and the couch, Bucky crosses his fingers. _Please not the pissing video. Please, god, anything but the pissing video._

“And the photo of Steve _Captain America_ Rogers made it clear he's very into BDSM.”

Bucky sags in relief. “Okay, so? It’s hardly a surprise for an alpha to be dominant.” Especially one that likes to be called _Sir._

“No, you don’t get it. The photo was of Steve, on his knees, collar in hand, and the messages posted with it made it clear that your alpha is much more S than D.”

A torrent of incredulous laughter bubbles over Bucky’s lips. It’s the breaking of a dam inside him, all the suppressed emotion flooding out with it, like a summer storm breaking a heatwave, and despite Nat’s arched brows, it doesn’t subside until he has an ache in his side and his throat is raw.

“Th-thanks for that,” he gasps. “I didn’t know how much I needed it.”

“Did I miss something? Since when are you into topping alphas? Doesn’t this kind of put the wrong kind of kink in your plan?

“Oh, come on, Nat. You don’t believe that, do you? The tabloids have this particular factoid very, very wrong.”

“How do you know?”

Bucky’s cheeks heat quickly, remembering the events of _that_ night. “Just, trust me on this one.”

“Uh-huh. Well, not everyone had the same unassailable faith in him that you do.”

Nat might as well have a neon sign above her head saying _'trap!'_ , but with her using Steve-shaped breadcrumbs to lure him in, Bucky can’t help himself. “Meaning?”

Nat grins at him, obviously delighted he’d taken the bait. “It got a lot of tongues wagging. Can you imagine it? Big, blond, and beefy Hollywood heartthrob alpha—a subby. People were losing their tiny minds. There was even talk of the Cap sequel being shelved indefinitely… well, at least until the news broke of him dating his little blonde co-star. According to—” Nat makes air quotes with her fingers, “ _— inside sources_ she’s the subbiest of the subs, and there’s no way she’d be with anything but a full-on Dommy alpha. But I think it’s just for show. It takes all types to keep the world spinning; hell, I’m an omega but I’m no shrinking violet, and my money is on Steve defying expectations, too.”

Bucky’s brain might as well be displaying a ‘closed’ sign for as much as it’s refusing to allow this new information entry. He doesn’t want to touch the Sharon theory with a ten-foot pole; he doesn’t want to lie to Nat nor to betray Steve… or break his NDA again. “Steve can’t be a submissive… he’s… he’s an _alpha_.” Bucky shakes his head slowly, the protests losing their conviction as Nat’s words worm their way into his mind. “I would know if he was.”

“Really? Does he know everything about _you?_ Appearances are deceiving. How we portray ourselves in public doesn’t necessarily reflect our personal experiences or preferences—you above anyone should realize that. And for someone like him? A guy whose job is only guaranteed by toeing the public approval line? The pressure must be enormous to maintain that peak alpha facade. Maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”

“He said he was going to fuck me against the wall when I called him _Sir_ ,” Bucky bites back. “I think that’s pretty telling as to preferences.”

Nat looks at him oddly for a moment then shrugs. “He _is_ an actor, Bucks. Maybe he was just playing the part you cast him in.”

“I… no….” Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t believe it.”

“I can show you the pictures if you want. It’s pretty convincing evidence.”

“You _saved_ the photos?”

“God, Bucky. I didn't make a scrapbook, but a quick google search will—”

“No,” Bucky cuts in. He’s not sure if it’s the thought of invading Steve’s privacy further or the possibility that what Nat’s saying is real that has his stomach churning, but either way, he doesn’t want to see.

The idea that Steve could be a submissive seems ludicrous. The odds of that are extraordinary; submissive alphas are almost as rare as male omegas from what he’s read… but rare doesn’t mean impossible.

_’You’re still trying to crawl your way out from under those headlines.’_

His first day at work feels like a lifetime ago, but Tony’s voice rings through his mind clear as a bell.

___’If you ask me, he’s overcompensating.’_ _ _

Ice flashes freezing-hot across Bucky’s skin. Steve is pretending to date Sharon to dispel the rumors, lying to the world… what if Steve’s using him to lie to himself?

___’He can experiment with you…’_ _ _

Oh, god. Maybe Steve didn’t want him because he is a male omega, but because he’s no-one, he’s bound by the NDA, and even if he did break it, who would believe him?

 _ _“Oh, shit,”__ Bucky breathes softly, suddenly seeing everything from a new perspective. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“I thought you knew,” Nat shrugs. “But it doesn’t have to be a deal-breaker if you’re into him. You should give it a whirl. Who knows, you might like it.”

Bucky’s phone buzzing on the table makes him startle and he eyes Steve’s name with a grimace. After a moment the call goes to voicemail and a new notification pops up on the screen, merging with the eleven already there.

“You really should answer that. He’s just going to keep ringing.”

“I can’t. Not until I know what to say—hey—no! Don't you dare!” Bucky reaches for the phone but it’s too late, Nat already has it in her hand.

“Relax. I’m not calling lover boy back, I’m calling Clint. You need to get out of this apartment and out of your head and I have plans tonight.” She lifts the phone to her ear. “Trust me, you’ll thank me for this later.”

  


“No, B.”

“But I wan' one,” Bucky grumbles, pushing his lips out in an exaggerated pout.

“You’ve already drunk more than your body weight, I’d be surprised if the bar has any whiskey left. And what’s up with that anyway?” Clint peers at him curiously. “You’ve never been interested in it before.”

Bucky frowns down at his collection of empty glasses on the table in front of him. “ _He_ tasted like whiskey,” he sighs wistfully, remembering Steve’s tongue fucking into his mouth.

“Wow.” Clint blows out a low whistle and shakes his head. “You really are gone for this guy, huh?”

“‘n’ ’m never gonna see him ‘gain,” Bucky says morosely, dropping his head to the table.

“Did I miss something while I was in the head? Some kind of announcement that the world is ending tonight? Pretty sure you have work in the morning… which probably makes tonight a very bad idea come to think of it.”

“No more work. Not t’morrow, not ever. I—” Bucky draws out the I like a drumroll, “—quit.”

“You what?”

“I quit,” Bucky lifts his face from the table, enunciating as best he can when his tongue feels like a thick, useless slug in his mouth. “I text’d Steve an’ told him so.”

“Jesus.” Clint scrubs a hand down his face. “Nat is going to skin me alive for you pulling that shit on my watch,” he huffs. “Though it’s half her fucking fault for not being here. Where is she, anyway? What was so important she couldn’t RSVP to your pity party.”

“She has a daaaate,” Bucky sing-songs.

Clint chokes on his beer, coughing as he slams the bottle down on the table. “A date? With who?”

Bucky shrugs then sighs. “You would’a let him fuck you, huh?”

“What? Nat’s date?” Clint asks distractedly, digging his phone out of his pocket.

“Steeeeeeve,” Bucky whines. “He’s so fucking sexy. Be-yooo-tiful,” he sighs. “And I’m nev’r gonna see him again. Ever. Never Ever. Y’know, even if t’was jus’ one night, I should’a let him have his way with me bu’ I ruined it, Clint. Anyone else would’a, even you and you’re not even int’a guys. You would’a let him pop your cherry, huh, Clint?”

“Mhm, sure, B. He’s very cherry-worthy,” Clint agrees half-heartedly, fingers dancing across the screen. “But I’m pretty sure he’s only interested in you.”

“Who’s interested in Bucky?”

Bucky’s head snaps up at Steve’s voice so quickly he almost topples backward off his stool, but this time it’s Clint’s hand that shoots out to grab a fistful of his shirt and drag him back upright.

“Steve?” he blinks rapidly, trying to focus his eyes, but the blurred outline remains, clinging to Steve like an aura only visible when two drinks away from alcohol poisoning. Or maybe he’s hallucinating. “Clint… I can see Steve.”

“Yeah, buddy, I can see him too.”

“Oh. He’s really here?”

Steve frowns at Bucky but directs his words to Clint. “How many drinks has he had?”

“Too many!” Bucky pipes up with a giggle. Steve is here. He thought he was never going to see him ever again. “At least Clint says I have but m’still standin’ so s’not enough.”

“You’re sitting down, asshat. I doubt you _could_ stand at this point,” Clint mutters before turning to Steve. “I was just about to take him home, but uh, if he sent you a text during the last three or so hours, do him a solid and ignore it, yeah?”

“Clint wants you t’ take his cherry.”

“Bucky!” Clint stretches across the table and slaps a hand over Bucky’s mouth. “Jesus, man.” He shakes his head at Steve apologetically. “Maybe just ignore everything tonight.”

Bucky licks a stripe over the back of Clint’s palm, giggling as his friend curses and pulls his hand away, then climbs off his chair awkwardly, somehow managing to stay upright.

“Karaoke!”

“No,” Clint says firmly. “You probably can’t even remember your own name let alone the words to a whole song.”

“Can too,” Bucky declares indignantly. “James Buchanan Barnes!”

“Your name is James?” Steve asks, looking surprised.

“See? M’not the only one that doesn’t read contac—con—con-tracts." Bucky presses close to Steve, and oh, he smells so nice. Humming happily, he nuzzles against the dark dress shirt smelling like vanilla beans and a future he'll never have. But then Clint’s hands are on his shoulders pulling him back away from Steve and he swipes at the hands in frustration. No. He wants to be near Steve, wants to wrap around him like a blanket. A Bucky-shaped blanket. He giggles again. He can’t remember why he was never going to see Steve again. It’s so stupid. He has to see Steve. He’d die if he couldn’t.

“You’re going to thank me for this tomorrow, B,” Clint murmurs, “if you remember,” he adds as an afterthought. “But it is definitely past your bedtime.”

“Mm, tha’ s’okay, Stevie can take me t’bed.”

“Uh, no, Stevie can keep an eye on you while I go pay our tab and then Clinty is putting you to bed. Sorry, pal.” Clint lifts his hands, though they bracket Bucky’s shoulders as he bumps between them like a pinball ball until he finds his balance. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Steve shakes his head and then Clint’s finally gone, and Bucky presses closer again.

“So, James, huh?”

Bucky wrinkles his nose. “The homes used t’call me that. Frien’s call me Bucky.”

“And am I still… a friend?” Steve asks carefully.

Bucky’s exaggerated nods make him a little dizzy and he giggles. “O’course. I like you. I _like_ like you. Like it when y’call me Buck… an’ baby,” he whispers shyly. “You smell really good. D’I ever tell you that?”

“Yeah, Buck, you did.” A frown tugs at Steve’s lips, but only for a moment, and then it’s gone. “Do you want to tell me why you didn’t answer my calls this afternoon?”

Bucky’s jaw goes slack. “You called me?”

“A bunch of times. I was worried about you after you ran out on me like that.”

A hazy memory glimmers in Bucky’s mind but it’s buried under too much Jim Beam to get to easily. He scrunches his face, trying to remember.

Oh… oh… oh… no. He shakes his head frantically before tucking his chin to his chest, hiding from Steve, suddenly remembering why he was never going to see Steve again. “Did’n want you t’see me,” he mumbles. “Never again.”

Steve is quiet for a long moment. “That would make me sad, to never see your beautiful face again.”

Bucky peeks up through his lashes. “Y’think ‘m b'utiful?”

“Mhm,” Steve hums. “I think you’re the most gorgeous omega I’ve ever seen, Bucky Barnes.”

“Stop teasin’ me,” Bucky grumbles, lowering his lashes again. But then Steve’s fingers are gripping his chin, urging it up.

“Look at me. Does it look like I’m teasing?”

Steve’s eyes are bright and very serious and oh, so pretty. Prettiest things Bucky’s ever seen, prettier than the Alaskan sky. “‘M sorry ‘bout the bonding,” he sighs. “I messed it up. I mess ev’rythin’ up. ‘M a disaster,” he groans, then brightens, a new idea occurring to him. “You could knot me t’night, instead.”

“Jesus, Buck.”

Bucky fists Steve’s shirt before frowning at the wrinkles he’s making in the fabric. He releases it and smoothes it down with his palms, then presses them flat on Steve’s chest. Pushing up on his tiptoes, he tries to get closer to Steve’s ear, giggling as he wobbles and Steve’s hands come up to grip his waist.

“You could,” he whispers. “S’okay, Stevie, I want you to… wanna be yours, even jus’ one night, s’okay.”

“I—” Steve clears his throat. “I think we should talk about this later.”

“You don’t want me? Is… is it b’cause I’m submish—sumbish—sub-mis-sive, too?” Bucky gasps as Steve’s fingers dig a little deeper into his waist. It feels good. Really good. Oh, his dick thinks so, too. “S'not somethin' I've done… fucked someone… but I could try… would try,” Bucky says earnestly, “for you.”

“Oh, shit. Uhm, so thanks for keeping an eye on him for me.” Clint appears at Bucky’s side like a magic trick, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Please take anything he said with a margarita glass full of salt, he gets a little talkative when he’s plastered.”

“So I noticed.” Steve’s hands lift from Bucky’s waist and Clint starts guiding him toward the door almost immediately. “Do you need an extra set of hands?”

“Yes,” Bucky twists back, smiling at Steve even as Clint continues to shuffle him forward. Steve’s hands on him. That’s a very good idea. “Please.”

“No, I got it,” Clint calls without turning back. “It won’t be the first time I’ve had to throw him over my shoulder if it comes to it, but thanks. Enjoy your night.”

“Clint?”

Bucky jerks to a stop, stumbling over his feet as Clint pauses, but the hands digging into his shoulder keeps him from face-planting.

“Are you going to stay with him? Make sure he’s alright?”

“Yeah, he’ll be fine, Rogers, don’t worry about it. I’ll have him up and ready to report for work in the morning—if he still has a job, that is.”

“Of course he does. But forget tomorrow, let him sleep it off, shooting’s been suspended. Tell him I’ll pick him up on the way to the airport on Friday morning.”

“Roger that,” Clint replies before hustling Bucky the rest of the way to the exit. “Damn, B, I really don’t know how you’ve done it,” he mutters when they’re finally outside after Bucky’s feet get tangled up in themselves for what feels like the hundredth time, “but I think you’ve managed to hook yourself GQ’s Hottest Alpha Alive. He’s got it as bad as you.”

“Bad?” Bucky squints up at his friend, the cool air making his hot skin feel prickly. “Yeah. I don’t feel s’good.”

Pausing at the kerb, Clint sighs and gives him a wary look. “If you can hold it until I get you home, I’ll hold your hair back while you pray to the porcelain gods. Deal?”

Bucky hums consideringly. “Deal.”

“God, I really hope you remember all of this in the morning or teasing you about it isn’t going to be half as much fun.”


	13. Fingerprint Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is painfully hard now, making a mess of his underwear and fighting a losing battle to keep his needy whimpers locked behind his lips. The fingers are gripping him tight enough to almost hurt—almost—and what the hell does it say about him that he wishes it would? That he wants Steve to squeeze a little harder, mark up his skin with fingerprint bruises that he can look at later while he's fucking his fist and coming with a cry of Steve's name... again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I know this has been a bit of a wait, you know why (and thank you for all the love and support on tumblr <333 ) I hope you find it worth it. 
> 
> ii. Am posting this at 3am, so there's likely to be errors. If there are any giant ones, formatting aside, feel free to leave it in a comment so I can fixxxxxxx. :) <3 I would spend more time going over it but Bex is making me go to bed. Blame her. :P 
> 
> iii. As always, thoughts, reactions, THEORIES!!, and keysmashing is adored! <3

"Steve! Over here!"

"Are you in town for long?"

"Is Sharon going to join you?"

"Who's your friend?"

Bucky freezes mid-step as the two dozen paparazzi appear in the airport seemingly out of nowhere, all pointing their cameras and phones at Steve—and _him._ It's overwhelming, turning the large space of the terminal claustrophobic, and despite every cell screaming in his body to flee, he can't seem to make his feet move from where they're planted to the floor, even with Steve already five steps ahead of him.

The familiar surge of panic constricts Bucky's throat, and afraid it'll burst over his lips in a scream, he clenches his jaw tight and grinds his teeth together. He's always hated being the center of attention, but he's never experienced anything like _this_. It's the type of torture that should be found in the ninth circle of hell, not the city of angels.

He doesn't know when he'd squeezed his eyes shut, but they fly back open when he feels the warm fingers wrapping around his wrist.

"Bucky? Are you alright?" Steve's concerned voice is low, meant to catch only Bucky's ear, barely audible over the noise of their unexpected entourage, but that, along with the thumb sweeping over his pulse point, is enough to slow Bucky's meltdown.

Despite the rapid thumping in his chest and his shallow breaths, Bucky nods jerkily, because yeah, he is alright, and he'll continue to be alright as long as Steve doesn't let him go.

"Good, that's good," Steve murmurs, leaning a little closer, gaze locked on Bucky like they don't have a rabid audience surrounding them. "Just keep your eyes on me and follow me out to the car. Think you can do that for me?"

Bucky hesitates before he nods again, and the fingers around his wrist tighten a little before Steve is turning away, walking calmly but briskly toward the exit, towing Bucky behind him with the hand not carrying both their bags.

Trying his best to ignore the sound of hundreds of photos capturing each step, Bucky focuses on the tight line of Steve's shoulders, how his body moves fluidly under the navy pullover, and the way his ass looks in those black jeans that ought to be illegal.

After a week of not seeing Steve, Bucky had just about died this morning when he had arrived to collect him looking like that. He didn't die, of course, but he had tripped over his own feet. He couldn't be mad about it, though, not when those big hands had wrapped around his waist to steady him, lingering for a moment too long before lifting to collect the bag lying forgotten on the doorstep. And while Bucky was busy thinking cool thoughts, attempting to douse the flames licking over his skin, that familiar, bemused smile had quirked Steve's lips as he'd asked if Bucky was ready.

The answer to that had been a firm no. No, of course he wasn't ready to spend a week in a hotel with Steve. Even though he'd triple checked the reservations and made sure he'd booked two rooms, the coming week is going to be the biggest test of self-control he's ever faced, and he's moderately-to-severely terrified he's going to fail spectacularly.

Lost in his musings, Bucky almost collides into Steve's back, belatedly noticing he's come to a standstill at the rear doors of a sleek, black car. The sharply dressed man waiting beside it with a neutral expression opens the door as Steve draws his arm forward—pulling Bucky toward the vehicle and motioning him inside with a nod.

Grateful to escape the shouted questions still filling the air around them, Bucky slides onto the plush leather seats quickly, scooting onto the center one as Steve ducks into the car and pulls the door shut after him.

One thick thigh brushes Bucky's, and he tries to keep his breathing steady in the small space that suddenly feels claustrophobic for entirely different reasons. The sound of the trunk slamming closed makes him flinch, and he anchors his gaze to his shaking hands twisting in his lap.

"You're not alright," Steve sighs, laying a hand on Bucky's thigh and giving a gentle squeeze. "I'm sorry, I should have warned you this could happen."

Bucky startles at the touch, then jumps again as the front door slamming shut, and he watches the driver check his mirrors before keying the ignition.

"Bucky?"

"What?" Bucky's focus snaps back to Steve, and he draws in a shaky breath. "Oh, no, um, it's okay. I knew it would happen, or I mean, I knew this kind of stuff happens—how else do they get all those images of you they splash across magazines and websites to sell subscriptions, right? But knowing it and experiencing it are two different things, I guess. I—uh, did I say something stupid? Why are you smiling?"

"No, of course you didn't. That's just the most words you've said to me today. I was starting to think I'd forget what your voice sounds like before the week was out."

"Oh. I just… um," Bucky mumbles before hesitating. He doesn't want to say he's kept his mouth shut for fear of a repeat performance from the bar, or worse, having to suffer through a post-mortem of it. He's not sure he'll survive revisiting his drunken offer to fuck Steve. Better to keep to safer topics. "Is it always that intense?"

"There's not usually that many at the airport," Steve hums thoughtfully before shrugging. "You get used to it."

"I'm not sure I could ever get used to that," Bucky counters quietly, wrapping his arms around himself, trying to ignore the lingering tightness in his chest. "I don't know how you do what you do, with the whole world watching your every move. I almost break out in hives having my optometrist staring at me for ten minutes straight, judging my answers to which lens is clearer."

Steve's chuckle draws Bucky's gaze back up, and he immediately wishes it hadn't. Ocean eyes are sparkling as bright as those damn perfect teeth, and Bucky's breath turns solid somewhere about mid-trachea. The resulting coughing fit drowns out the sinful laugh, and when Steve's hand slides over Bucky's back, rubbing in firm strokes, he sucks in a fresh breath that sounds mortifyingly like a moan, and he slaps his hand over his mouth.

He shakes his head as his body realizes it can't actually choke on air, and he drags his hand away. "S'okay, sorry. Thank you," he rasps.

Steve's hand stops moving but doesn't lift until Bucky wriggles forward, edging away from the touch.

"Do you want to tell me what's really going on?" Steve asks carefully, dropping his hand into his lap.

"What do you mean?"

"It's not just the unwelcome attention at the airport; you've been wound up and skittish since I picked you up this morning. You hardly said two words to me on the plane, and now…"

Bucky tries not to wince at the accusation because, well, it's true. "Now?" He knows he should just shut up and hope Steve drops the subject, but he can't stop himself asking.

"Now you're acting as if you'd rather be back in a crowd of paps than alone here with me," Steve says softly.

"No, that's not—I really, really wouldn't," Bucky protests quickly. "It's just after… um, _everything,_ it's just a little… I don't know…" he huffs in frustration. "I don't know how…" He breaks off, looking to the driver.

Bucky finds no outward signs that he's paying them any mind; his whole attention seemingly focused on maneuvering the car through the lines of traffic surrounding them. Still, Bucky pulls his lip between his teeth, wondering how much he should say with an audience. But then a black divider begins to rise between the back seats and front, and he turns to see Steve pressing a button set into the door.

Only when the privacy screen is fully raised does Steve give a small, encouraging smile. "You don't know what?"

Without an excuse to hold his words, Bucky has little choice but to answer. "I don't know how I'm supposed to act around you now. After what I d-did and said…"

Steve's eyes narrow, but the rest of his face remains impassive. "I wasn't sure you remembered that."

The memory of coming undone ontop of Steve is much too vivid, painting the back of his eyelids every time Bucky closes them, and though his recollection from the bar is hazy, it had been bolstered by Clint's incessant teasing. "I wish I didn't," he replies honestly. "I keep finding new lows to sink to; you should probably fire me before I pull you down with me."

"Can't," Steve says lightly, though the quick curve of his lips doesn't reach his eyes. "New contract, remember? Guaranteed employment."

"Yeah, well, I actually read that one, and nowhere in it does it say that I can't quit."

Something unreadable flashes in Steve's eyes. "Do you want to quit?"

"No," Bucky answers truthfully before his brain registers the need to lie.  
  
Steve smiles at that—small but genuine—his eyes softening as he leans forward and lays a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Good. But we need to talk about what happened."

"We really, really don't," Bucky disagrees, shaking his head vehemently. "It won't happen again, I promise."

"What won't?"

"Oh, um, a-all of it? None of it. It was just… I was just…" Bucky gestures helplessly. He shouldn't have brought this up; he isn't a boy scout, he's not prepared—there will be no merit badges awarded for courage today.

"Bucky, what happened in my trailer—"

"I know," Bucky blurts. "It was all my fault. I'm sorry—"

"You need to stop apologizing," Steve chides.

"And you need to stop stopping me from apologizing," Bucky retorts before cringing. "You know what I mean. It's just—fuck—I should have just gone home as you told me to, but I didn't listen; I never listen," he sighs before snorting out a derisive breath. "Be careful what you wish for, right? I wanted to change things, and I did, but of course I managed to change them to the worst possible outcome—I ruined your floor and my pants, and I just miss how it used to be before, but no amount of talking about it is going to make you forget how I came like a fucking teenager just because you moaned my name."

The silence following the blurted confession is deafening, and Bucky wants to reel the words back in and choke on them, but instead, he just gapes while Steve stares at him with wide eyes, and Jesus, he's sorely tempted to open the door and fling himself into oncoming traffic to get away from the shock tugging at those perfect features.

"Bucky... did you—is that—"

Bucky lets out a yelp of surprise as the door beside Steve swings open. He'd been so caught up in spilling secrets to the one person he absolutely should not be sharing them with that he hadn't even realized the car had come to a stop, or heard the driver get out, but he's not about to snub his nose at the only break he's likely to get today. He slides across the seat away from Steve and fumbles with the handle on his own door. Ignoring Steve calling his name, he scrambles out of the car, heart beating like he'd run the entire way here from the airport.

He twists on the spot, eyes flitting from the car to the hotel's busy entrance and back again. But when the driver stops Steve to hand him their bags from the trunk, Bucky makes the executive decision to make a beeline for the doors. He hadn't meant to say that— _any_ of that—and he needs a minute to throw together a hasty plan of extraction, a way to remove his proclamation or at the very least, cover it with something less damning. Steve will put one and one together and realize how Bucky feels, and then... well, he's not sure what happens next, but he's pretty sure it can't be good. More humiliation, no doubt, probably in the form of pitying looks and a gentle letdown.

Three feet from the open doors, he's buffeted between two large alphas as they push in front of him, glowering down at him like he had been the one to cut into their path rather than the reverse. Biting back some choice words, he staggers to the side and lets them press ahead of him, grumbling under his breath about alpha privilege. It's a nice distraction, but he barely makes it through the doors before Steve is at his side again.

"We are going to finish this conversation, Buck."

Bucky's not sure if it's panic or lust that thrills through him at the stern tone—probably a little of both—but Steve's jeans pocket starts ringing, and Bucky seizes the opportunity to buy a little more time. "Yeah, I know, but not here," he gestures to the bustling bodies around him. "You should get that," he nods to the phone hidden in Steve's pants. "I'll um, I'm going to check us in."

Without waiting for a response, he spins on the spot and rushes toward the reception desk. He can feel Steve's stare boring a hole into his back as he approaches the redhead dressed in a sharp blue uniform behind the counter.

"Good morning, Sir. How can I assist you?"

"I booked some rooms—two—I booked two rooms, um, I just... I'm here to check-in?" Bucky fumbles, his brain still fixed on Steve.

The redhead smiles at him, amusement curving her lips a few degrees higher than professionally expected. "Of course. I'm Pepper, and I am here to assist you in any way you need. What name is the reservation under?"

"B-Barnes," Bucky stutters before clearing his throat. "They're both under Barnes."

Rapid tapping on the keyboard fills the silence as Pepper stares at the screen. She nods once, then turns back to Bucky. "Everything seems to be in order; I just need to see the ID you used to make your booking for confirmation."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Bucky braces himself as he reaches for his wallet, well aware that the happy, helpful demeanor is about to change to disapproving scorn the minute she sees the red plastic that identifies him as an omega. The sharp corners press into his skin as he curls his hand around his ID, hiding it from view until he's flattening it onto the desk and sliding it towards Pepper, waiting for the backlash. But she just glances at the card and then to the screen and gives him another kind smile.

"Excellent. Thank you, Mister Barnes." She places two plastic keycards on the counter next to his ID. "Do you require assistance in finding your rooms or valet services to help with your luggage?"

"I—uh, no, I'm—it's—" Bucky shakes his head, reeling from the lack of reaction, the prepared indignation floundering with no outlet. He hadn't found a stranger that didn't care about his designation since... _oh.  
_  
"No, thank you, we'll be fine." Steve collects the three plastic cards, tucking them against his palm before using his fingers to grip Bucky's elbow and guide him away from the desk.

Bucky allows himself to be steered toward the elevator, his brain doing nothing but fixating on where Steve's touching him. But disappointment balloons in his chest when that touch disappears as soon as they're inside the car and Steve reaches to jab the close doors button before anyone else can join them.

"No more stalling, Buck." He looks down at the keycards before jabbing the button for the seventh floor.

The mirrored walls of the elevator reflect Steve's set jaw from multiple angles, and Bucky can't do anything but focus on dragging air into and out of his lungs, trying desperately to fight the wave of desire so strong that it's threatening to make his knees buckle. Steve is a commanding presence in every situation, but Steve taking command is enough to make Bucky swoon, which is handy because all he wants to do right now is drop to his knees and beg Steve to take control of him in other ways.

The chime announcing their arrival sounds a moment before the doors part, and Steve's hand finds Bucky's elbow again, urging him to keep pace as he strides out onto the plush red carpet of the hallway.

Bucky is painfully hard now, making a mess of his underwear and fighting a losing battle to keep his needy whimpers locked behind his lips. The fingers are gripping him tight enough to almost hurt— _almost_ —and what the hell does it say about him that he wishes it would? That he wants Steve to squeeze a little harder, mark up his skin with fingerprint bruises that he can look at later while he's fucking his fist and coming with a cry of Steve's name... again.

The tight seal of his lips breaks just as Steve stops, lifts his hand and swipes a card through the electronic lock on room 729. He steps inside, holding the door open, and Bucky obeys the silent command: taking five steps into the room before spinning on his heel to face Steve.

But Steve simply shuts the door then turns to stride past him, tossing the cards on the table next to him before moving to place both bags by the double bed. The already tight pullover stretches thinner as Steve drags in a long breath, his massive shoulders lifting and falling before he pivots and locks eyes with Bucky.

"Is it true? Did you mean what you said in the car?"

There's no teasing in Steve's voice, and nothing but glittering intensity in those blue eyes, and Bucky flounders, torn between running into his arms and out the door.

"Answer me, Buck."

"Yes," Bucky replies automatically. He should be worried about the power Steve wields over him, but it feels good in ways he doesn't understand to give Steve what he wants. To be good. "You knew, though, right? I mean, it was obvious, wasn't it? I wasn't exactly, uh, subtle."

"I thought it was just the friction," Steve says, stepping closer. "From the way you were rutting against me... riding my knot," he husks out.

"Oh, _fuck."_ Bucky squeezes his thighs together as slick slides down between them, reaching out to grab the chair beside him for support. His whole body is thrumming with desperate, ferocious need now, his ass and dick leaking in tandem.

"Why did you run out on me like that?" Steve takes another step closer, and _another_ —Bucky's breaths getting shallower as the distance between them decreases.

"B-because I came in my pants while screaming your name," Bucky gasps, fingers biting harder around the wooden backrest of the chair.  
  
Steve's gaze feels like pure fire, like it's _consuming_ him, and Bucky tucks his chin to his chest, fixing his gaze on his white knuckles. "It seemed like the right choice at the time."

Steve claims the final step of space and presses his crooked finger under Bucky's chin, urging it up. "Why?"

"I've never... that was..." Bucky swallows roughly, trying to find the words. How can Steve not understand how mortifying that was? "It was humiliating. If anyone should have com—uh, done that, it should have been you."

"You should have stayed on top of me a little longer then," Steve says thickly, lifting his thumb to drag over Bucky's lower lip. "Another ten seconds would have done it, Buck."

"Steve..." Bucky's dick throbs _painfully,_ and he's pretty sure he's going to explode from internal pressure. "I—" He licks his suddenly dry lips, whimpering when he tastes the barest trace of Steve on them.

Steve hums questioningly, eyes dropping low to Bucky's mouth. "Yes, baby?"

 _"Nnghh—"_ Bucky's knees finally give out, and Steve's hands dig into his waist, taking his weight.

_Baby_

Bucky's head is filling with cotton wool, the softness a spectacular contradiction to the hardness straining against denim below.

"You need something, sweetheart?"

Steve's velvet voice coils down Bucky's back and settles at the base of his spine, and he nods. Yes, he needs something—he needs _Steve._ "I need—" The shrill ringing pierces the fog of lust, and Bucky blinks stupidly for a moment before realizing it's Steve's phone. "I think you should get that."

"It's not important," Steve murmurs, bending to press soft kisses under Bucky's jawline.

"Uhh, y-you don't know that," Bucky says, but the words come too slowly, his tongue thick and sluggish in his mouth, and by the time he's managed to push the sentence free, the ringing has stopped.

"I know it's not as important as _you,"_ Steve answers between the open-mouth kisses. "All I need is right here."

"Oh, god." Bucky threads his fingers in the soft locks brushing against his chin, tilting his head back and holding on for dear life as Steve's mouth finds the tender lump in his throat and suckles at it gently, laving at it with his tongue as the soft hair of his beard rubs over Bucky's throat. His whole body is singing, his every nerve lit up in the sweetest melody of pleasure, and he joins the serenade, moaning Steve's name, high and sharp.

"You sound so beautiful for me like this," Steve growls against Bucky's skin, trailing lingering kisses over the column of his throat, moving up to the tender gland behind his ear. "Almost as sweet as when you come for me."

White noise flares behind Bucky's lids as he tugs on Steve's hair urgently, pulling lips from skin. _"No, no, no!"_

Steve stiffens and straightens immediately. "Buck? What's wrong?"

"I can't—you can't—I'm gonna—" Bucky pants, clenching his every muscle still under his control taut as a bowstring, trying to keep himself from coming apart with no more than sweet words and tender touches. He shakes his head furiously. He can't lose control, not again, not like this, so aching and _empty._ The loud ringing sounds once more, and Bucky shoves his hand into Steve's jeans pocket blindly, ignoring the raised brow, and pulls out the phone and thrusts it at Steve. "Answer it."

"Now isn't the time—"

"Oh, it's _exactly_ the time," Bucky grinds out. "I need a minute to, uh... collect myself."

"I'd rather see you break apart," Steve husks out. "You're close, aren't you, baby?"

The noise that claws from Bucky's throat is part whimper, part moan. "I don't want to come in my damn pants again—I don't care where, in your hand, your mouth, on you, in you, I don't care, but I want it to be _with_ you. Please, I just... please, I need a minute."

For a second, Steve's eyes flash dangerously, and Bucky is sure he's made a mistake, said something wrong, but then the world shifts as Steve plucks him from the ground and sets him down on the chair he'd been clinging to for support.

"One minute and then you're mine," Steve says, taking the phone and raising it to his ear. "You better make this quick."

The slow breaths Bucky drags into his lungs do nothing to slow his speeding heart or the rate of bodily fluids spilling from his body. Surreptitiously, he presses a hand to his jeans, cringing at the dampness that meets his touch; it's like he's sprung a fucking leak.

The low curse drags his attention up, away from his pants to the conversation he'd forced onto Steve.

"Yeah, sorry, I forgot." Steve looks down at Bucky, his brows pinching tight. "Is there any way we can reschedule?" He's quiet then, listening to whoever is on the other end of the line, nodding slowly before sighing and scrubbing a hand through his hair. "No, wait there. I'll be right down, Pegs."

Pegs? _Peggy_. Bucky's heart continues to flutter erratically, though it starts sinking from his chest to his feet. _What the fuck has he just done?_

Steve shoves the phone back into his pocket and spits out another dark curse. "I have to go. I have a... an appointment."

Sitting in ruined underwear, neck coated in Steve's scent and saliva, Bucky isn't quite sure what the hell he's supposed to say to that, so he doesn't say anything, just nods.

Steve moves to the bed and grabs his own bag. "I'm sorry, Buck. I forgot all about it."

"No, it's okay," Bucky replies numbly. _It's not okay_. Why the fuck had he told Steve to answer the phone? He could have been knot deep inside him now instead of getting ready to leave.

"Jesus, I don't want to leave you like this," Steve sighs, eyes roaming down Bucky's body.

 _Then don't,_ Bucky wants to scream. He swallows the words and instead pushes his lips up a scant inch, the best he can manage, and shakes his head. "It's okay," he repeats dully.

"Can we... "Steve sighs. "Raincheck?"

Bucky flinches. "Raincheck," he echoes hollowly. "Sure."

Steve stops by the table, reaching out to take a keycard from the polished surface. "If you need me, I'm in 1507."

 _No, if I need you, you'll be with Peggy._ "Okay."

Steve hesitates. _"Are you?"_ He asks quietly.

The question enters Bucky's brain and bounces around like a ping pong ball, but misses every single comprehension zone. "Am I what?"

"Okay?" Steve cups Bucky's cheek. "If you need me to stay—"

"No," Bucky leans out of the embrace carefully. "No, I'm okay. Really. Go to your... appointment. I'll be fine. I'll be... here." He doesn't want Steve to stay because he's asked to or because he thinks he has to; he wants Steve to stay because _he wants to_.

But Steve is staring down at him like he can read him like a book, and hell, maybe he can; Clint is always telling him he has a lousy poker face. On the other hand, Steve's face is unreadable—the perks of being an actor, a professional pretender.

Bucky jolts on the chair as Steve sinks into a crouch, abandoning his bag to take both of Bucky's hands in his.

"I have to go to a movie premiere tonight. It's a film I shot last year after the first Cap movie. That's why we're here this week, to do press for the film."

Premiere. Appointment. Peggy. _Date._ Suddenly, all the pieces are slotting into place, and Bucky hates the image glaring up at him. But he nods carefully and tries to keep the dejection from his voice. "Oh. That's... okay. Do you need me to dry clean a suit for you? Or pick up a dress for..." He can't bring himself to say Peggy's name; saying it makes it too real, too painful. He clears his throat carefully. "For the occasion?"

Steve's low chuckle makes Bucky bristle, but the fight goes out of him immediately when Steve's lips curve up, and he cocks his head to the side. "If that's what you want to wear, sure."

"I—what?" Bucky's pretty sure he's missed a step. "Why would I wear a dress?"

"Because you'd look stunning in one," Steve answers easily, winking.

"Steve... _stop._ I don't understand," Bucky says in a small voice, the impossible hope flickering to life in his chest stealing the oxygen from his lungs.

"I'm asking if you'll come with me to the premiere tonight," Steve says solemnly, all hints of teasing gone. "Will you be my plus one?" When Bucky just blinks at him stupidly, Steve continues. "There will be a lot of press and fans and guests. Red carpet, cameras, the whole nine yards. If you don't want to, or it would make you uncomfortable, that's fine, you don't need to say yes, but I would love nothing more than to have you accompany me as my date."

Steve's thumbs are sweeping over Bucky's hands distractingly, so it takes a moment for him to process the question. He waits for the 'gotcha,' the laugh and the 'just kidding' or the hidden camera crew to jump out and tell him he's being punked, but there's nothing but ringing silence and Steve staring up at him earnestly, something very much like nervousness twitching the corners of his lips. "Is this... are you being serious?"

Steve nods, eyes not wavering.

"Oh." Bucky feels strangely numb—no, that tingly sensation that comes after numbness, when nerves are waking up, like pop rocks fizzing under his skin. Steve isn't going with Peggy, Steve is asking _him_ out on a date, and it's surreal and wonderful and absolutely _terrifying._

"Are you saying yes?" Steve prompts.

Eyes not leaving Steve's, Bucky nods once, and the flicker of hope roars to life inside him as Steve rocks forward to press a kiss to his lips. It's chaste and sweet but filled with so much promise that Bucky's lips curve up under Steve's.

"These things are scheduled down to the minute. The car is coming at five forty-five, so I'll come and get you at five-thirty and—"

"No," Bucky cuts in. "I'll meet you downstairs, in the lobby." Steve quirks an eyebrow at the statement, but Bucky just shrugs, hoping his cheeks aren't as red as they feel. He isn't sure if Steve comes to his room after this, looking like sex on legs, that he won't drag him inside, onto the bed, and they'll lose any hope of sticking to the carefully planned itinerary. "If that's okay?"

"If that's what you want, of course it is. As long as I can bring you back here, _after."_ Steve brushes his lips over Bucky's once more just as his phone rings again. "Shit. I have to go," he says, releasing Bucky's hands reluctantly before grabbing his bag and pushing to his feet. "I'll see you at five-thirty, sharp."

Giddiness bubbles through Bucky's veins, and he fights back the ridiculous urge to giggle. "I'll be there."

He watches as Steve twists around in the doorway to give him one last, lingering look before he leaves, and for the first time since the disaster in the trailer, Bucky has hope that everything is going to be okay.

Bucky fidgets with the hem of the jacket, eyeing himself critically in the mirror, trying to decide if the tie pressing into his neck is a step too far. It's not the same one he wore in Alaska, but he'd spent two hours searching stores to find one almost identical in color, and now, four youtube videos later, he'd finally managed to do a decent enough job tying it, though half of him—no, pretty much all of him—is hoping Steve will notice it's not perfect and fix it for him… again. The thought has heat pooling low and molten, burning as hot as the fire in his cheeks, remembering Steve's reaction the first time, remembering those blue eyes bleeding black, tightening the silken fabric against his throat.

His reflection stares back at him; skin flushed, eyes bright, lower lip almost scarlet from being crushed between his teeth for most of the day—from nervousness and excitement, and from trying to justify spending two week's wages on the navy suit he'll probably never wear again, but once is enough if that once is tonight.

He hadn't expected an occasion to need anything other than his usual work attire, and it's not like he can accompany Steve to a premiere and walk the red carpet in a band shirt and jeans. No, he has to look respectable, has to fit in—can't embarrass Steve, not tonight. Embarrassing himself in private is one thing; reflecting poorly on Steve in public is another, and the first step in avoiding that is looking the part. His hands tremble as he smoothes down the already-flawless fabric of his dress pants.

Awake and asleep, he's been fantasizing about a moment just like this for months, but now it's finally happening, he feels jittery and dizzy and overwhelmed. The very idea that Steve would want to date him— _him_ —is surreal and laughable, and yet Bucky is ninety-nine percent sure the invitation hadn't been a fever dream. And if it _had_ been, if he is lying concussed somewhere because the plane went down, and he's imagining this whole thing while he's on death's door, he doesn't care as long as he gets to live tonight before he dies.

The melodic tinkling of the phone alarm jolts Bucky from his morbid thoughts. He has three minutes to get downstairs to be two minutes early. He doesn't want to keep Steve waiting; he wants tonight to be perfect. He takes one last look at himself—from the intricate braids sweeping his hair back into an elegant waterfall over his shoulders, down the crisp lines of the suit clinging to his lean frame making him look a hundred times better than he does out of it, to the dress shoes so shiny he can see his reflection.

"I can do this," he murmurs to the glass. "I got this."

He almost believes it. _Almost._ Mostly, he wants to throw up.

After silencing the alarm, Bucky slips his phone into his pocket, followed by his key, and heads for the door. He doesn't stop to close it, just lets it swing shut behind him as he strides to the elevator, not entirely sure if he stops, he won't chicken out and run right back to his room. As if the universe is aware of his impulse to flee, it takes pity on him, presenting him with an empty elevator car and no stops on his short ride to the lobby.

He steps through the doors quickly as soon as they open on the ground floor and squeezes between the three guests as they crowd to take his place. The lobby is swarming with activity, and the energy in the room does nothing but notch his anxiety higher. The urge to turn around and rush for the stairs is bested only by the knowledge that Steve is here somewhere, waiting for him.

The rush of adrenaline that surges through him at the thought makes his heart stutter, but when he lays eyes on Steve standing not twenty feet away, it just about beats clear through his chest. The velvet shimmer of Steve's midnight blue suit catches the light as he twists to scan the crowded room, and the warm glow makes his perfectly styled hair shine like spun gold. He looks so completely, _devastatingly_ perfect.  
  
Bucky's heart swells, and something warm and honeyed spreads slowly, soul-deep inside him. It's a realization, a confirmation, an acceptance: _he is in love with Steve._

The decaying cage he'd constructed around his heart crumbles, and he lets it turn to dust; he doesn't need it anymore. He'd built it from fear and self-doubt, trying to protect himself from the inevitable rejection of wanting what he could never have. But somehow, and God, Bucky doesn't know how or why, but Steve hadn't rejected him; Steve _likes_ him. And though it's a long way from Bucky's own feelings for Steve, it's a start...a chance for something more.

He can't fight back the beaming smile, and wouldn't even if he could—he wants to shout his bliss from the rooftops, wants to run to Steve, to taste his lips again, to feel those powerful arms wrap around him and never let him go. But there'll be time enough for that later.

Later…

After their date. When Steve brings him back to the hotel. To his room...

The soft whimper spills over Bucky's lips at the visions blooming into his mind, and his knees wobble alarmingly as he steps forward. He raises a hand in a half-wave to catch Steve's attention before he freezes.

Still not looking in his direction, Steve shifts, taking a step to the right—no longer blocking Bucky's view of the stunning, red floor-length gown, glittering like rubies as Peggy threads her arm through Steve's.

She leans close, whispering something that's lost to the distance, but there's no mistaking the adoration painted on her pretty lips and shining in her eyes. Steve nods once, but he doesn't return Peggy's beaming smile. Instead, his eyes lift to dart around the room once more.

The second Steve's eyes find his, understanding rolls through Bucky like a thunderstorm, turning his mind dark and dangerous. Steve's gaze drops low, flicking down his body in a slow-motion moment that feels like an hour before lifting to his face, and Bucky watches as Steve's own pinches tight. The wordless apology etched into the lines is louder than the dozens of jumbled voices surrounding him, and Bucky's heart cracks like glass beneath his ribs.

Unable to process it or unwilling to accept it, he takes a tremulous step forward, but the minute shake of Steve's head is as effective as a barricade, and Bucky jerks to a standstill.

Steve opens his mouth but presses it closed again without a sound, and Bucky can do nothing but watch as Steve gives in to the gentle tugging on his arm and starts moving toward the exit. His eyes never leave Bucky's, though, guilt clouding the blue depths with every step away. It's only when Steve moves through the doors and disappears outside that the connection breaks and Bucky's heart shatters apart; the shrapnel of lost hope exploding inside him.

The breath trapped in his lungs is aching, desperate for release, and he stares at the door, people blinking in and out of his field of vision as he prays for that familiar silhouette to step back inside, to come back to him, to tell him it wasn't what it looked like.

But Steve doesn't come back for him because it's _precisely_ what it looks like.

Bucky's breath erupts from his chest in a broken cry, and he throws his hand up to cover his mouth. But no one spares him a second glance; no one cares his world is burning down around him, that his dreams are ash and his heart is in pieces.

The vibration in his pants pocket makes him startle, and he pulls his phone out and stares down at the screen.

_I'm sorry._

The burning in Bucky's throat intensifies as the words of Steve's message blur beyond recognition, but it's only when the first tear drops onto the screen that his legs start moving—his feet finding the path to the stairwell without further prompting. He shoves the phone back in his pocket as he shoulders the heavy door open, the jarring pain barely noticeable above the screaming agony in his chest.

Hot tears spill from his eyes freely now, his chest heaving as his legs stumble up the stairs and his mind spirals. Why had Steve asked him to be his date only to turn around and ask Peggy? It doesn't make sense. Did he get cold feet? Realize the backlash that would come from taking him? Or had Steve been planning on taking Peggy all along? Was Steve toying with him? Ashamed of him? Maybe he really is only good enough to be with Steve behind closed doors. But why let him get his hopes up and get ready only to abandon him without a word? Without an explanation? He'd been _right there._

Bucky's foot slips on the step and he pitches forward. He flings his arms out in front of him, but they don't find purchase in time and his cheekbone slams into the unforgiving surface of the stairs. Pain explodes behind his eyes, and he chokes out a sob as the splitting seams of his composure bursts completely. He pushes up off the step, twisting to plant his ass on them instead, and drops his head to his hands.

The grief tearing through him is made all the worse for having his heart's desire so close only to have it ripped away. In the span of seconds, his soul had come alive with first love and been rent by loss. In all his utter disasters and continued humiliations, he'd never thought his lowest point would be dealt by Steve's hand.

He'd been stupid to expect any other outcome but this. To the world, he's nothing, he's nobody—no, worse, he's _abhorrent,_ nothing but a freak of nature. A male omega has no place on a red carpet, especially not on the arm of the hottest alpha on the planet who lives his life under the oppressive scrutiny of the small-minded general public.

Bucky had gotten carried away, swept up in daydreams, and he'd lost sight of how the world works. Even if Steve had taken him tonight, he was never going to be in Peggy's position—by Steve's side, a perfect prize to show off to the world—he would just be lurking in the shadows, waiting quietly to slip inside the theater after Steve had bared his teeth and soul to the cameras, and carved up a piece of himself on a platter for the world to devour. Bucky would never be anything but a shameful secret, a timebomb waiting to go off and sink Steve's career. No matter how fervently he wishes otherwise, he's not a suitable date for Steve, and he sure as fuck isn't a suitable mate.

Bucky pushes to his feet on shaking legs and starts determinedly up the stairs, wiping the wet tracks from his face with the back of his hand, wincing as he rubs over his left cheek. He can't do this. He can't spend his life as a yo-yo, at the mercy of Steve's whims or changing desires. For all the times he's wanted to quit—to spare Steve or himself—it had only been the thought of never seeing Steve again that had stopped him. But now... that is the only thought that brings him a sliver of peace.

His phone chirps again but he ignores it. He'd let his heart make a fool of him more than once, but he can't do it again, he just... _he can't._ He wants to stay here forever, hide from his new reality, to hide from Steve, but pretending is what had got him into this situation in the first place. He needs to face facts, needs to go upstairs and pack his things. Then, he needs to drink the entire minibar. It won't be enough to numb the pain tearing through him, but it'll be a start. In the morning, he'll text Steve his resignation and go home, alone, and try to convince himself he's better off this way, that he can live with the Steve-shaped hole cleaved from his heart... because he knows he can't live with being Steve's dirty little secret.

Whatever the reason tonight unfolded as it did, it doesn't matter. The fact is it did, the reality is _Steve let it happen._ The world may not see Bucky as worth much, his designation marking him disposable, but he thought Steve was different. He'd been wrong about Steve, but Steve is wrong about him, too. He's not disposable, he's not a nobody—he knows his worth, and anyone who can't see that isn't worth having... not even Steve Rogers.


	14. Crimson Confetti

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God help him, he wants to see Steve. How pathetic is he, that with his heart shattered in his chest, decorating his rib cage like crimson confetti, he still loves the one man who can never love him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. The chapter count has gone bye-bye. Please do not be alarmed. We're sitting at about 25, I think, at this stage, because I keep splitting things. The story is staying the same, just the planned delivery has been altered. 
> 
> ii. Sorry about the last chapter, I was not expecting the pitchforks coming for Steve. I will say, please give him a little benefit of the doubt. All will be revealed, and hopefully you can forgive him--Bucky manages to! ;) 
> 
> iii. Please feel free to leave your theories at the door/comment box about what comes next. ;)
> 
> iv. Gotta give loveeee to Bex for the Steve-check, and many thanks to [this handy tutorial](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434845/chapters/14729722) for formatting help for the text messages!

A hundred angry bees buzz inside Bucky's brain for the tenth time in two minutes, and he scowls as he finally cracks an eyelid. His phone is shuttling across the polished wood of the table beside the too-hard hotel bed, the light of the screen casting a blue halo enough to burn his overly-sensitive retina.

He scowls harder as he sits up—needing to be closer to the offensive brightness to see what the hell it says without fumbling for his glasses—which is possibly his worst idea since attempting death by minibar, because oh, ow, too quick, much too quick. He spits out a curse as he presses the heel of his hand to his temple, trying to exert enough outward pressure to counteract the internal force of his brain trying to break through his skull.

_Steve Rogers._

The name blinks up at him innocently, like it isn't the reason for his hangover sent express mail from Hades, like Steve fucking Rogers isn't the name—the very last name—that Bucky wants to be staring up at him, like it isn't the cause of so much heartache he's sure he's no longer capable of feeling anything _but_ pain.

With absolutely no forethought or intention of compounding his bad choices of the night, he snatches up the phone and presses it to his ear.

 _"What?"_ The word comes out sharp and he winces, his innate omega nature squeaking its protest with a surge of guilt.

This is Steve, his _boss_ —at least for a few more hours. In his haste to guzzle the overpriced contents of the small refrigerator, he had forgotten to text his resignation. By the time he'd remembered, he hadn't been brave enough to pick up his phone—notifications had been blowing it up as he'd emptied tiny bottle after tiny bottle, new ones pinging seemingly with every swallow. It was like his own personal drinking game… until he'd run out of alcohol, at least. When he was finally drunk enough to not give a fuck, he'd ignored the notifications, thrown the phone on the table, and flopped down onto his bed. The resulting clinking of empty glass as his weight settled onto the uncomfortable mattress was an effective lullaby, and the last thing he'd heard until the incessant vibrating had awoken him.

But, this is also _Steve —_the guy that had asked him out on a date only to turn around and take little miss fucking perfect instead, so the tone is justified.

"Buck? You're okay? Jesus. You're okay." Steve's voice is filled with relief and at least as much alcohol as Bucky had consumed by the sounds of it, if not a little more. The words aren't slurred but soft, thick, drawled out with a hint of an accent that he hadn't heard before. "Been tryin' to reach you all night."

Bucky wants to snap that he knows, that that's the _only_ time Steve reaches for him—when it doesn't count, when no one else can see. "What do you want? It's…" He pulls the phone away from his ear to glance at the screen and grimaces. Four in the morning? No wonder he feels like utter shit. With a heavy sigh, he shoves the phone back to his ear. "It's late."

"I know, 'm sorry. Just needed to know you were okay. Needed to hear your voice."

"I'm fine," Bucky chirps curtly, the lie another deep stab into his chest. "So if you don't need anything else, I have to go—"

"No, baby, please don't—"

"Don't," Bucky cuts in, hemorrhaging pain at the endearment. "Don't call me that."

"I… Buck?" Steve's voice is so uncertain, halting, and where it would typically make Bucky's chest ache, right now it just makes his blood boil.

How can Steve act as if nothing has changed? How can he not _know?_ "You don't get to call me that, Steve… not anymore. Call Peggy if you want to whisper sweet noth— _oh_." Bile burns up Bucky's throat. "Are you… are you with her?" If Steve is calling him from Peggy's room…

"Why would I be with Pegs?"

"Oh, I don't know," Bucky drawls sarcastically, "Probably the same reason you decided to take her as your date instead of me."

"No, that's not—I would never—"

"You would and you did!" All at once, all Bucky's bottled-up emotions spillover, and he is powerless to stop them. He doesn't think about Steve being his boss, just being the man who crushed his dreams, broke his heart, and tossed him away. "You left me standing there like an idiot, you left me without a word of explanation, and I deserve one. I deserve to know _why._ " He doesn't notice the tears slipping down his cheeks until they're roughing his voice and blurring the room around him into a watery void, and he squeezes his eyes shut as the pressure in his head increases even more. He should just shut up, lock his lips and his pain behind them, and pretend he's okay, pretend he doesn't care. But the not knowing _why_ is what's tearing him apart, and Steve is the only one that can stop it. "Why did you do that to me? If you changed your mind, if you wanted to take someone else, I get it, I'm hardly an acceptable date, but that doesn't mean you couldn't have called or told me before I got to the lobby—" Bucky clamps his jaw shut before he adds what he really wants to say _— before I saw you with my replacement_. He can't say that, not yet, the taste of truth too bitter on his tongue.

"I'm so so—"

"Don't say you're sorry, just tell me why," Bucky snaps, see-sawing dangerously between anger and agony.

"I will, o'course I will. I'll be right up."

"Up… up where?"

"To your room. We need to talk."

"No, that's not…" Bucky looks around at the mess littering his bed. He can't let Steve see this; let him know just how much the rejection had affected him. And more so, he can't risk his anger dissolving under the weight of his feelings and offer his body up on a platter like he had his heart. "We're already talking, just tell me."

"I need to see you. If y'don't want me up there, come down here?"

"Down…? Where are you?"

"At the hotel bar. 'M all alone. We can talk."

Bucky hesitates… and hates that he does. He knows he should just say no, should demand Steve tell him on the phone and be done with it. Get the answers he wants—that he _needs —_and then close this chapter of his life—hell, he can burn the fucking book and move on and spend the rest of his life forgetting Steve Rogers. Except… God help him, he _wants_ to see Steve. How pathetic is he, that with his heart shattered in his chest, decorating his rib cage like crimson confetti, he still loves the one man who can never love him back. Maybe this inclination to pain that Steve has stirred in him has made him a masochist. What if he loves Steve _because_ he hurts him? Oh, no, that's way too much to unpack at ass o'clock in the morning while nursing a hangover.

"Buck?"

"Yeah, okay," Bucky breathes out, his mouth taking the initiative before his brain has come to a decision one way or another. It just makes sense to _see_ Steve while he's getting his answers—it's easier to tell if someone is lying when you can see their face, their eyes… their beautiful, ocean blue eyes. He rolls his eyes hard enough to detach his retinas, making a disgusted noise at himself, and throws his head back. "Oh, shit, fuck!" He pulls in a sharp breath and holds it, trying to steel himself against the pain exploding behind his eyes from the quick movement.

"'M comin' up—"

"No! Shit. I'm fine, it's just—I'm fine, just stay there. I'm coming down." Bucky doesn't wait for Steve's reply, just ends the call and frowns down at his phone screen. It's lit up like a Christmas tree with dozens of missed calls and even more messages. All of them are from Steve.

  
I'm sorry.  
  
We'll talk when I get back, I promise.  
  
Baby?  
  
Buck?  
  
Tell me you're okay.  
  
You missed a call, but the caller didn't leave a message.  
  
You missed a call, but the caller didn't leave a message.  
  
You missed a call, but the caller didn't leave a message.  
  
You missed a call, but the caller didn't leave a message.  
  
I'm sorry, baby. Answer the phone, okay?  
  
You missed a call, but the caller didn't leave a message.  
  
You missed a call, but the caller didn't leave a message.  
  
Talk to me.  
  
Please.

Bucky flicks his thumb over the screen, watching the lines of messages scroll up, and up, and up. It's all more of the same, though gradually they become a little less precise—no doubt Steve's drinks taking a toll on his fingers as much as his tongue. Impulsively, he jabs at the screen again and then confirms the delete conversation pop-up, and a small thrill of grim satisfaction spikes in his gut as he watches the entirety of Steve's too little, too late damage control disappear from his phone. He tosses it onto the bed before carefully sliding off the mattress, then grabs his room key and shoves it into his pocket.

He probably should have changed out of the suit when he'd fled up here earlier—keeping it on had only succeeded in making him feel even worse—but he had paid an ungodly amount of money to have it for tonight, so he was going to wear the damn thing for the whole fucking night, even if Steve had pulled his plans out from under him. He doesn't bother to change it now, either, not caring in the least that it's crumpled and that his tie is hanging askew and loose from his neck. His hair is probably coming undone from his braids, too—another wasted expense. All in all, he's pretty confident he looks like death warmed up, and still, somehow, it's nothing compared to how he feels. But it doesn't matter in any case. Steve had walked away from him when he'd looked perfect; this is just very much the other side of the coin; after Bucky has his explanation, he's going to walk away from Steve looking as far from perfect as it's possible to be.

He exits his room quietly, mindful of the hour, and strides to the elevator with as much confidence as he can muster. It's only when the doors open, and Bucky steps inside, that the enormity of what he's about to do hits him. He's going to confront Steve, face to face. He's going to ask questions and he's going to get answers, and then… then he's going to tell Steve he quits.

When the elevator opens up to the lobby, he finds the bar easily enough, and Steve is half-right. There are no other patrons in the bar aside from him, but the guy behind the bar—who Bucky is sure must be a part-time model when he's not slinging cocktails—is bent over, elbows on the bar, chin resting on his hands, staring at Steve with stars in his eyes… or stars and stripes. The recognition is visible from across the room, just like the unadulterated lust scrawled over the rest of his face.

Jealousy burns hot in Bucky, and he's stormed half-way to the bar, ready to claim his alpha when he flounders. Steve isn't _his._ He has no claim to fight for; Steve is his boss only, and in a few minutes, he won't even be that.

Bucky wants to slap Steve and scream at him, and he wants to climb into his lap and kiss him until they're both breathless and desperate. How can he want both at the same fucking time? He must be broken in ways he hasn't even discovered yet.

Slowing his strides to a more casual 'I don't care if you fuck everyone in the hotel except for me’-pace, Bucky tries not to take it personally when the bar beta's eyes flick to him, assesses him as not being a threat to Steve's attention, and refocuses on the mountain of alpha in front of him. Steve, on the other hand, goes rigid before spinning on his stool, his whole attention shifting to Bucky.

"Buck, you're—what happened to your face?" Steve is up and off his chair, wobbling dangerously before the question leaves his lips.

Bucky rushes forward instinctively, planting his hands on Steve's waist, the odd role-reversal not doing his aching head any favors. "No, sit down! If you fall, I am _not_ going to be able to lift you," he grunts as he pushes against the human brick wall in alpha's clothing. And, god, he might as well be pushing an actual brick wall for how much effect he has. He has half a mind to ask the beta for help, but having lost Steve's attention, he'd wandered down to the other side of the bar, back now facing them.

"Did someone hurt you?" Steve growls, cupping Bucky's jaw, tilting his face up to the golden haze of light filtering from the ceiling, ignoring the efforts to push him back onto the stool.

Biting back the real answer to that question takes everything inside of Bucky, but he manages it… just. He'd forgotten about his damn face; the swollen and tender cheekbone is a drop in the ocean compared to the rest of him. He doesn't want to have this conversation. He wants to know what happened tonight—or _last_ night, now. "Steve," he huffs out, pushing his frustration into every syllable, "Sit… down." When his request falls on drunk-deaf ears, Bucky adds an ultimatum. "Or I'm leaving."

 _That_ gets Steve’s attention. After a single beat, he sits, though when his hands lift from Bucky's face, they catch his wrists, tugging him close. Much, much too close.

"What happened to your face? Tell me who hurt you."

The rough order sparks Bucky's submissive nature, and he's opened his mouth to answer before his brain comes back online and he changes tack. "You're not the one asking questions now," he says, fighting to keep his voice even, not wanting it to crack and betray just how thin the veneer of his counterfeit confidence really is. Right now, he has the upper hand, but he can feel it slipping away with every second he spends in Steve's presence. This was a mistake. This was a very big mistake. Swallowing against the panic thickening his throat, he pulls his hands from Steve's grasp but doesn't step back, holding his ground nestled between thick, spread thighs. "You said you would explain, so explain, or I'm going back upstairs."

Bucky feels physically sick at talking to Steve like this, giving demands and ultimatums, acting like… like an _alpha_. It feels unnatural, a too-tight corset constricting his lungs, but coloring within the lines of his own designation had not yielded any results but pain and regret. If discomfort and baring his teeth is what it takes to get him his answers, he'll do it. Consequences don't come until later, and later, he won't be around to have to face them.

The air around them is heavy, and Bucky can feel Steve's own nature to take control warring with his desire to keep him here, not wanting to call the bluff, just in case.

"You weren't meant t'be in the lobby," Steve says suddenly, voice strained.

"What are you talking about? I told you I'd meet you there. We had… we had a date."

Steve's face twists as torturously as his voice. "Sam was supposed to call you. Said he would."

Ice water flushes through Bucky's veins. This is it; he'd finally done it; he'd gone and got himself fired. He didn't need to send the resignation text after all. He should feel happy or relieved or… _something_ , but he just feels strangely numb. "Is he—am I fired?"

The pinched expression on Steve's face softens with confusion before he shakes his head slowly. "Don't be silly. Ain't gotta worry about that, I told you."

"It's not silly," Bucky bristles. "Why would you—God, you think my resume looks like it does because it's easy for someone like me to keep a job? I'm disposable, Steve, didn't you get the memo? In life, at work—" he gives Steve a pointed look, "—to people. I always expect it because that's what always happens, so don't tell me not to worry."

"Shit, Buck, I'm sorry. I didn't—" Steve reaches out toward Bucky but recalls his hand, scrubbing it through his hair instead. "You're right, o'course you are. I don't know what s'been like for you, sweetheart. Can't imagine how hard s'been. You're so damn strong, but you ain't gotta be with me. You don't have t'worry about me doing that to you, ever. I'd never fire you; never hurt you."

"But you did," Bucky says in a small voice before he can stop himself. "You did hurt me."

Steve does reach out then, leaning forward as he cups Bucky's jaw with both hands again. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry. Wanted to go to you, but the press… I couldn't."

"Press?" Bucky's brain stalls. "There was press in the hotel?" He tries to think through the dull ache his head has become. He remembers the activity, the blur of bodies, but his whole attention had been fixed on Steve—a traveling circus could have been passing through for all he knew.

"After this morning…" Steve trails off. "Sam didn't trust me, but I should've called. Fuck, should have called the whole fuckin' thing off, stayed here with you. You weren't s'posed to be there, but Jesus, you looked so b'utiful. Are now, too, o'course, always so pretty, but goddamn, Buck, wanted t'scoop you up and take you to my bed."

Bucky feels like he's been hit with a taser, all his nerves firing up at once like physical static jumping under his skin, short-circuiting his brain. "Then why didn't you?"

"Should've. Wanted to… still want to." Steve's hands drop from Bucky's jaw, finding his waist before tightening and lifting him from the floor with the grace and coordination of a much more sober man.

A gasp shocks from Bucky's throat as he throws his arms around Steve's neck, clinging tightly as the stool rocks under the quick, unexpected movement of Steve settling him onto his lap.

"You can feel it, can't you, baby?" Steve hums, burying his face into Bucky's neck. "Feel how much I want you?" Big hands curl tighter, pinching into narrow hips as Steve presses down, mimicking the hold from the trailer.

Bucky whimpers softly, feeling the hardness straining beneath him, making his spine go soft. "S-Steve. You can't just—"

"Can't what?" Steve shifts his hips, pushing up harder against Bucky's ass.

"I—oh, fuck." The skirmish between mind and body is only won by the narrowest victories, spurred on by Bucky's knowing that he was right—Steve hadn't taken him only because he was ashamed of him. "I g-get that you are drunk and, uh, and horny, but you don't want me. If you wanted me, you wouldn't have left me here alone. If you wanted to get your knot wet, you should have gone home with Peggy." The words are acid in his throat, but he can't deny the truth of them.  
  
"You're the only one I want, Buck, the _only_ one. Wanna make you come again, an' want t'be knot deep inside you when you do—feel your little pink hole trembling around me, stretched so wide while I fill your belly, make you _mine_. You want that, too, dontcha, baby? To be tied to my knot for hours. M'gonna make you feel so good. "

Bucky tries to hiss out a shushing noise but it's garbled, choked as vivid images of Steve's words play out in front of his open eyes and leak from his dick. "You c-can't just say stuff like..uh.. _that._ People will hear you."

"S'no one here but us, baby," Steve husks out, doing that _thing_ with his hips again as he licks a hot stripe up Bucky's neck. "Could make you lose control right here, make you soak your pants and mine, make you make a mess on my lap," he murmurs into the flush burning down Bucky's neck. "You want that? Want to be my sweet boy and make a pretty mess for me?"

"Nghh _— Steve!"_ Bucky clenches his thighs where they're split around Steve's waist, but it's no use. As if taking Steve's words for commands, his body acquiesces, slicking up embarrassingly quickly. He twists his neck to the side, searching the room wildly for anyone that could overhear them or see them, gasping as he inadvertently scrapes his sensitive skin against Steve's beard. His teeth crush into his lip, trapping the moan behind them, trying desperately to drag himself to the surface of the _want_ drowning him. "S-someone c-could see—" Bucky stutters out, throwing his head back as Steve's lips form a seal on his skin, sucking at a tender spot under his jaw.

"Want you," Steve murmurs, "Need you." Hot, open-mouth kisses punctuate each word. "Need to make you mine."

_Mine._

The word is forked lightning inside Bucky, stirring lust and the wrong kind of pain. "I—no, no, I can't do this…stop, _please._ "

The heat of Steve's mouth disappears, and Bucky mourns the loss despite it coming at his behest.

"Buck? What's wrong?"

“What _isn’t_ wrong? You saying that you—saying _that_ —that's not—that's—" A frustrated growl tears from Bucky's throat, his hands unclasping from Steve's neck to push at his shoulders. "You _don't_ want me," Bucky bites out between heaving breaths, willing his racing heart to slow. "Not really, not like I want y—shit. You don't want me to hang off your arm; just lie in your bed. But you can't have Peggy or Sharon or whatever other perfectly proper omega you want to parade around in public and have me in private. I can't do that. I can't be with someone who's ashamed of me."

"S'not what it is. 'M not ashamed. I want you, Buck. Want you in my bed, by my side, wanna show you off to the world. But it… it's just… complicated. The airport, the pictures… and my job… it's not just me. Sam, Sharon, they depend on me. I can't just…" Steve looks at Bucky with so much longing, his heart—or what's left of it—stutters in his chest. "I don't get to be selfish."

 _Airport? Pictures? Selfish?_ Bucky is missing a piece of the puzzle; he just doesn't know which one. Something had happened before the premiere—something to do with him, and if Sam was supposed to call him, well, odds are that something is not a good thing, and he's not sure he wants to know what it is. But knowing Steve didn't just leave him there because he changed his mind or got a better offer soothes Bucky in one way as much as it stings in another. It's the confirmation of his greatest desires and fears all at once—Steve wants him but will never be able to be with him. Not while the eyes of the world are on him. Still, it doesn't stop the shattered pieces of his heart from melting and trying to fuse back together into a poor approximation of what it used to be.

But Steve's words are coming thicker now, disjointed and soaked in the dark spirits that are sweetening his breath. There's no point pushing for more information tonight. Maybe with a little luck and a lot of very strong coffee, they can continue this conversation later in the morning.

"I think we should go to bed." At Steve's approving growl, Bucky shakes his head, wincing. "Ow—oh, no, I mean, go to beds, our beds, separate beds. You have interviews in the… uh, soon."

"Can think of much better ways to spend those hours 'stead'a sleepin'," Steve hums, running his hands up Bucky's sides.

Bucky can think of a lot, too, the throbbing in his body riding the threshold between pleasure and pain. He can feel himself softening towards Steve—some parts of him, at least—but this drunken display feels too much like being the only warm body on offer. Bucky's eyes flick to the bartender. Alright, so the only _familiar_ warm body on offer. "You're too drunk to know what you're saying, and I'm just sober enough to know it's a bad idea."

"S'not a bad idea. I can smell you, baby," Steve kisses the words into Bucky's skin. "Know you're leakin' for me. You creamin' those panties, sweetheart? Need your alpha to plug you up nice an' tight, hm?"

_Your alpha._

Bucky jerks on Steve's lap as the words shoot from his head to his dick, taking all the blood with it, and the moan he'd bested earlier rumbles from his throat like a purr. "Oh, God, I—I—ahh, fuck. N-no. Nuh-uh. You n—need sleep," he grinds out, clutching tightly to the splitting seams of reason.

"Need you, baby. Need to make you feel good, to say sorry, t'taste your sweet lil—"

 _"Fuck!"_ Ignoring the quivering of his hole—wet and aching and _empty_ —Bucky presses one hand over Steve's mouth and uses the other to push away, clambering off Steve's lap, sending up a whispered thanks to the heavens when his shaky legs hold once his feet touch the ground. "N-no, you need sleep, and _I_ need sleep, too. I have to be up—uhh, awake with you… later… um, sooner rather than later."

Steve's eyes drag down Bucky's body, lingering on the tightness in his pants before returning to his face. "Stay then," he murmurs, raising his hand, signaling to the bartender. "Stay and have another drink with me." He pats his thigh with his free hand. "Can sit right here, sweetheart."

Bucky grabs Steve's raised arm and tugs it down. "Between us, I'm pretty sure we've drunk _your_ body weight which is much too much, we don't need any more alcohol tonight—oh, no, he's fine, thanks," he adds, addressing the bartender quickly as he appears next to Steve like a magic trick.  
  
But the beta's gaze is narrowed on Steve, eyeing him like a starving man drooling over a side of beef. "You having your usual, or you wanna taste somethin' a little different on those perfect lips?" The beta's suggestive flirtation is right out of bad porn, but Bucky's pretty sure that's the idea. There's no doubt in his mind that if Steve asked, the beta would happily be the _different taste_.

"What'll it be, Buck?"

Bucky looks from Steve's expectant face to the beta's hungry one and back again. He should just leave, go up to his room and try and get an hour of sleep before he's expected to switch to work mode… because he can't quit yet—not yet. He needs his answers, especially now, knowing it has something to do with him. And he needs Steve for those answers. It doesn't matter if Steve stays and drinks himself into a coma—except, okay, then he'll never get the missing puzzle piece.

But if Steve stays and fucks the beta in the bathroom until the sun comes up, that's none of Bucky's business—except, the thought of it makes him want to scream and cry and throw up all at once. And the idea of going up to Steve's room, of finally being with him, of all his filthy fantasies and deepest desires coming true… that sends a shiver racing down Bucky's spine in ways he knows it shouldn't. It would be a hell of way to end one of the worst nights of his life. That was the plan for tonight before it all went to shit, after all. So maybe he should say yes, take one small piece of Steve—or, _big_ piece of Steve—to keep in his memory. It's not like he'll get another chance…

He pretends to think about the question for seven more rapid heartbeats before answering.

"Fine," he huffs, "Yeah, I'll come with you. No more drinks." He holds out his hand, trying not to tremble as Steve takes it and threads their fingers together.

He can feel the bartender's eyes on them as he leads Steve to the exit and hopes to God the guy gets paid enough for discretion, or Steve may have just put paid to his hopes of avoiding another scandal. But Bucky has bigger things to worry about, like the fact that he has the time it takes to climb fifteen floors in a much-too quick elevator to decide what the fuck he's going to do when he gets to Steve's room—follow his head or what's left of his heart.


End file.
